


[Pilot]

by babybrotherdean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Demonic Possession, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Mildly Disturbing Themes, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Character Death, Temporary Amnesia, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-17 19:46:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4679045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybrotherdean/pseuds/babybrotherdean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean makes an appearance on Sam’s graduation night after two years of radio silence, Sam knows he should be grateful to even know that Dean's alive. Instead, all he can think about is how off his brother seems, the way he won’t look Sam in the eyes every time he dismisses his absence. Sam knows there’s something bigger at play here, but when Dean starts talking about demons and their schizophrenic drunk of an absent father, he thinks maybe he’s gotten in over his head.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>[Wincest Big Bang, 2015. Inspired by Supernatural's originally drafted script of the pilot episode, back when the Winchesters were the Harrisons, Azazel had black eyes, and Sam didn't believe in monsters.]</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	[Pilot]

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who've never experienced [the original drafted script of the pilot episode](http://leethomson.myzen.co.uk/Supernatural/Supernatural_1x01_-_Pilot_Draft.pdf), I suggest you read it. It's not necessary to understand this story, but it's where I got my inspiration, and this work is heavily based on the content there.
> 
> (And besides that, it's just beautiful, in general.)
> 
> Before we get going, I need to give a few shout-outs.
> 
> First of all, to Marie, aka [etoile-etoilee](etoile-etiolee.livejournal.com), the wonderful artist I was paired with for this Big Bang. She was wonderful to work with, and I'm still gushing to myself over how gorgeous her pieces are. I'm so happy to have gotten to work with you, and I'm so glad we got to do this together.
> 
> Next, thank you so much to [Lisa](womanoflettersinthebunker.tumblr.com), for a few things- including but not limited to introducing me to the original script to begin with, contributing a ton to the finer plot points of this story, letting me bounce ideas off her, and encouraging me to meet my deadlines.
> 
> Next we've got [Samma](bigbrothersam.tumblr.com), for letting me bounce ideas off her all the time, and for humouring me as I switched between three different potential story ideas for this Big Bang. Many thanks to letting me bitch and whine about writing being hard, and for poking me to finish things when they were due.
> 
> Finally, a huge shout-out to all the mods behind the [Wincest Big Bang](wincestbigbang.tumblr.com) for all the hard work they did to organize this. Thank you for accepting me, thank you for reminding me of deadlines and offering me encouragement when I needed it. Thank you for putting up with my occasional tardiness when it came to submissions.
> 
> I'll stop now because this is getting long, but I'll throw in some more notes at the end because I like to talk. Without further ado, enjoy!
> 
> [[Art masterpost can be found here!](http://etoile-etiolee.livejournal.com/81394.html)]

It’s always been hard to drive away from Stanford after a visit, even two years after Sam left to go to school in the first place, and Dean finds himself looking longingly in the rear view mirror far too many times as he leaves Palo Alto. It’s probably the only reason he sees the black car at all. Recognizes it. Realizes that it’s following him. 

It feels like something out of a bad horror movie, but Dean makes the call and pulls over at his first opportunity. It’s an abandoned parking lot, and it’s getting dark, and his instincts tell him he’s basically begging to get murdered, but that doesn’t matter. Not when the familiar purr of an engine follows him into the lot, just as he’s stepping out of his car. Not when it pulls up beside him and a man steps out, tall and bulky. 

The smile he sees is a familiar one, worn, tired. Just this side of not completely sane. Dean thinks maybe he's dreaming, maybe he’s imagining the smell of old leather and gunpowder. But the hand that lands on his shoulder feels solid and real, and he swallows hard. Manages to speak, the one word, the title that after nearly a decade of radio silence, he’d thought he would never get to use again. Not like this.

“Dad?”

Even for California, it’s warm out. April should be damp, at least, Sam’s sure, but the sun is shining full force, and he’s sweltering under the graduation robe. The dark fabric hangs heavy, his dress shirt clings to his skin underneath, and he almost wishes he was somewhere else.

After four years of hard work, though, he’s finally made it here. He’s getting his undergraduate, moving onto law school and a prestigious internship in New York City, of all places. He’s got a girlfriend, he’s got a valedictorian speech to deliver, and he can see his aunt and uncle in the audience, smiling encouragingly and clapping at all the appropriate times.

The empty seat beside them is what catches Sam’s eye, though. It sticks out, painfully obvious among the packed crowd, and he feels his heart clench, tastes the disappointment that’s bitter on the back of his tongue.

He doesn’t know why he’s surprised anymore. After dropping off the map two years ago, Sam’s not even sure his brother’s still alive. It shouldn’t matter that he isn’t here. It shouldn’t matter that Dean used to make a point to show up to every soccer game, every drama performance, every award ceremony. It shouldn’t matter that even now, Sam can picture it- Dean standing up and making a big fuss when it’s Sam’s turn to receive his diploma, embarrassing them both and not caring in the least. 

Apparently, though, Dean’s moved on with his life, found bigger and better things to do, no matter how much the thought hurts. How much Sam wishes he was still the most important thing in his brother’s life.

With thoughts of Dean to distract him, the ceremony passes in a blur. Sam delivers his speech without a hitch, manages to smile as everyone throws their caps into the air. There’s hugging and crying and he makes his way out into the crowd, finds himself with an armful of blonde before long. Jessica smiles up at him, gives him a kiss, tells him about how well he did, how proud she is of him, how good he looked.

Sam smiles again and doesn’t think about warm green eyes or freckles. Doesn’t bother wondering if his brother would still be able to pick him up and spin him around like when they were little. Those things don’t matter anymore; Dean’s gone, and he’s sure as hell not coming back.

Smiling comes easy, but Sam’s never been very good at lying to himself.

As tempting as they are, Sam doesn’t end up going to any after-parties. He’s supposed to leave for New York in the morning, getting an early start to learning the city, and he has no intention of flying cross-country with a hangover. 

Or at least, that’s the line of reasoning that convinces Jessica to come back to their apartment with him instead of hanging out with some of their friends once the initial celebrations are over. He’s not up for drinking, doesn’t think he can stand holding his smile in place any longer. For whatever godforsaken reason, he can’t stop thinking about his brother, even though he should be long since used to Dean’s absence in his life. He has Jessica, he has his aunt and uncle, and he has his degree. Dean shouldn’t matter anymore.

Even with that in mind, Dean’s still the focus of his thoughts when he reaches the door to his apartment. It doesn’t take more than a heartbeat to notice that it’s slightly ajar, the lights still off inside, and all his senses go on high alert.

Jessica’s trying to peek around him, reaches for the handle. “What’s…?”

Sam grabs her wrist, gently pushes her behind him. “You wait here, okay?” he murmurs. Maybe he’s not a professional, and maybe he should just walk away and call the police, but something tells him that he needs to investigate this on his own. “Let me check this out.”

He waits for a nod of assent before he pushes the door open, silently thankful that he’s started oiling the hinges recently. It swings open for him without a sound, and he slips inside, muscles tense. It’s quiet in the apartment for a long moment before there’s a creak of floorboards deeper inside, and Sam follows it, moves on the balls of his feet with his heart pounding in his ears. 

He pauses outside the doorway to the kitchen, takes a silent breath. Steadies himself before quickly stepping inside, arms raised defensively and ready to face whatever threat he’s met with and praying that the guy isn’t armed-

“Hey, kiddo.” There’s a smile audible in the voice, and Sam stops dead. Feels like he’s dreaming. Wonders idly if he passed out on the way home. “Sorry I’m late, but happy graduation.”

Dean’s leaning against the counter next to the fridge, one of Sam’s beers open in his hand, looking for all the world like he’s right where he belongs. There’s something off about him, Sam thinks, his easy slouch a little too practiced, but he can’t grasp the thought, can’t hold onto it and try to make sense of what’s going on. Not when his big brother’s standing in front of him, healthy and whole, for the first time in two years. He can hardly even form words, just stares with his lips slightly parted before managing to speak.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, that’s me.” Dean rolls his eyes, looks amused. “Glad to see I haven’t changed that much.”

The sentence sounds a little funny, and there’s something about the way Dean shifts his weight when he says it that sets off some kind of warning in the back of Sam’s mind. He doesn’t think about it for the moment, though, because Dean’s _here_ , and he’s okay, and the only thought that really makes it through the confusion in Sam’s mind is-

“Where the hell have you _been?_ ”

There’s no surprise in Dean face, though he pushes off the counter to stand up a little straighter, takes a quick swig of his drink to finish it off before setting the empty on the counter with a soft _clink_. “That’s a long story,” he says, voice a little softer now. “Actually, you know what? I was thinking maybe we could spend a couple days together. Catch up a bit.”

Sam’s mind goes to the flight he’s supposed to catch tomorrow, and he fumbles. Feels like he can’t say no to this offer. Based on the last two years, Dean could slip through his fingers like smoke if he’s not careful with this. “Dean, I-”

“Sam?” Jessica’s voice is soft, cautious from the next room, but Dean stiffens, face going hard. It’s a little alarming to watch the change, but Sam’s attention is drawn back to the front door, where Jessica’s just barely leaning inside, fingers curled around its frame. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, c’mon in.” Sam tilts his head for her to join them, and she hurries to Sam’s side, peers around him towards Dean. Sam wraps an arm around her waist with an instinctive feeling of protectiveness and turns to face his brother again. Falters slightly at the look he’s giving Jessica. “Dean, this is my girlfriend. Jessica Moore. Jess.”

Dean’s face smooths out at the introduction, and he leans back against the counter again, but there’s nothing relaxed in his posture now. His eyes are sharp, calculating, and Sam feels uneasy. “Dean.”

“Winchester. My older brother,” Sam adds when it doesn’t seem like Dean intends to clarify. “He, uh. He’s visiting, I guess?”

Jessica makes a thoughtful sound, glances up at Sam. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

Sam’s looking at Jessica, but he doesn’t miss the way Dean’s fingers curl tight around the edge of the counter. Imagines they’d be bloodless and white if the lights were on to see. “He, uh. He’s been doing his own thing for a couple years-”

“But I’m here now.” When Sam glances over, there’s something damn near predatory in Dean’s smile, and he tries not to shiver. Some tiny, deeply-buried part of him seems to be convinced that he shouldn’t be showing any kind of weakness, but that shouldn’t be right. This is his brother. There shouldn’t be any sense of threat. “And I’ve gotta steal your boyfriend for a couple days. Family business.”

Jessica looks confused, and she glances between the two of them. “What about New York?” she asks, pauses to eye Sam. “Aren’t you supposed to leave tomorrow?”

Sam can feel Dean’s eyes on him like a physical weight. Shifts a little, uncomfortable as he looks back at his brother. “Yeah. I’ve got a plane to catch, Dean. I can’t run off with you for a weekend. Not right now.”

Dean’s eyes narrow as he glances between them, but then his face evens out and he straightens up a little bit. “C’mon, just a couple days.” A smile, and he leans back against the counter. Settles against it properly, posture casual. He seems more relaxed now, but there’s still something about him that’s making the hair at the back of Sam’s neck stand on end. “Hell, I’ll drop you off in New York myself. Drive there, cross-country, just like-” He falters, looks almost annoyed for a moment before he continues. Sam wonders about the pause, frowns. Quietly files it away. “Anyways, I can bring you there. You aren’t starting on the weekend, are you?”

Sam hesitates. Shakes his head. “No, I start on Monday. But that’s a long drive to do like that, are you sure-?”

“Completely.” If Dean’s smile isn’t genuine, Sam can’t tell. There’s still something sharp in his eyes though, something that has him on edge. “I’m used to it. Been living on the road, more or less, so I’m good. You can even sleep for the boring parts if you really want.”

Sam has an odd suspicion that there aren’t going to be any “boring parts” as long as he’s with Dean. But even so, he knows he doesn’t really have a good reason to say no. He glances at Jessica, almost wishes she had a reason to keep him behind, but she just looks curious. A little worried. 

“I guess I could come with you,” he says slowly, watches the way Dean’s eyes light up. It sort of reminds him of a little kid, and suddenly there’s a wave of vertigo, smell of smoke and then pine needles, has him shaking his head sharply to clear the spots behind his eyes. “Uh- yeah. As long as I’m in New York for Monday, then that’s okay. We can… catch up, or do whatever you want to do.”

The brief spell of dizziness has him confused all over again. He wonders where it came from, what it had to do with Dean. It’s a question for another time. 

“Awesome.” The grin on Dean’s face has him looking legitimately excited, and it’s enough to ease Sam’s nerves. Maybe his big brother really just wants to catch up. Make up for all their lost time. God knows there’s a lot of it to make up for. “So- if you just want to grab your stuff, my car’s parked out front. We can head out whenever. Soon. You can sleep in the car, if you want. I’m good to go for a couple hours.”

The shift in Dean’s attitude is a little startling, but it’s nice to see him happy all the same. “Yeah. Alright, sure. I’m already packed, so…” Sam glances around, jerks his chin towards the bags he’s got piled by the door to his bedroom. “I’m ready when you are.”

Dean nods, pushes up off the counter and takes a moment to relocate his empty bottle to the edge of the sink. “Okay, yeah. Perfect. Do you…” He pauses, looks at Jessica. Seems to lose a little of the sudden cheer. “Need some time to yourselves or something?”

Sam feels Jessica squeeze his hand. Has a feeling she doesn’t want him to go. There’s no way they’re not going to talk about this. “Yeah, that’d be nice,” he admitted. “I can meet you out front?” 

Dean doesn’t look terribly pleased, but he nods. “Yeah. See you in a minute. And thanks for the beer.” 

With that, he’s up, moves towards the door. Sam gives him a clap on the shoulder on his way by, and pretends not to see Dean flinch. He must have imagined it, anyways.

A moment later, and he’s left alone with Jessica, door closed like it should’ve been when they showed up. Sam’s slow to turn to his girlfriend, doesn’t get a chance to question the concern in her eyes before she speaks. “You’re really going?”

Sam frowns. Wonders why she seems so on edge. “He’s my brother, and we haven’t even spoken in two years. Hell, he might vanish into the sunset again if I don’t go with him now.” Frankly, after what happened two years ago, it’s all Sam can expect. “If I don’t go, I might never see him again. What choice do I have?”

That doesn’t seem to set Jessica at ease any. “Sam, don’t you think…” She hesitates. Glances towards the door like she’s worried Dean’s still there, listening in. She lowers her voice even though they’re alone. “He doesn’t seem… okay.”

Sam frowns again. Glances towards the door and shoves all the doubts to the back of his mind. If he can’t be confident about this, then there’s no way he’ll convince Jessica to be. “He’s fine. We had a bit of a rough time growing up, so it’s been hard not having each other around, y’know?” A reassuring smile, and he pulls her in against his side. “Don’t worry about it, okay? I’ll text you and stuff to let you know how it’s going. Take some pictures. Sound good?”

She doesn’t look fully convinced, but nods slowly. “Just… be careful, okay?”

Sam tries to convince himself that he won’t have to be, but nods all the same. “Yeah, ‘course. Don’t worry too much about me.” He looks at the door again, wonders how long they have before Dean comes searching for him. “I’m gonna head out now, but I’ll text. Call you. Something.” A quick kiss, another smile. Maybe if he keeps forcing them, they’ll start feeling more genuine. “I’ll talk to you soon, Jess.”

It takes a moment to gather up his bags before he’s heading out the door, kicks it shut behind him. He tries not to think about the finality of the action.

Dean’s waiting outside the front door of the building, as promised, pacing in front of a black car. He stops when Sam steps outside, and looks almost relieved. Smiles. “Hey. Ready to go?”

Sam nods, shifts the grip he has on his bags. His attention’s caught by the glint of streetlights in black metal, and he frowns as he steps closer. Sets a bag down to run his fingertips over the car’s hood and thinks about toy soldiers and his own initials.

“She’s gorgeous, huh?” There’s pride in Dean’s voice, and Sam hears his brother move past him, open the back door to start loading bags inside. Sam wonders idly why they’re not going into the trunk, but doesn’t think about it too hard.

“Yeah, I just…” A furrow in his brow, and there’s something in the back of Sam’s mind, something he can’t quite grasp. A memory slipping through his fingers like loose sand. “How long have you had this?”

“Her,” Dean corrects. Sounds a little hesitant, a little hopeful as he continues. “A couple years now, I guess. Why?”

It lines up with when they stopped speaking, but Sam can’t shake the feeling of familiarity. Like he should remember this car, but… it’s nothing solid. Nothing he can pinpoint. “Just wondering, I guess.”

A moment of silence, and Dean clears his throat. He’s nodding when Sam looks up. “Right. Well, you’ll be getting acquainted now, I guess, right?”

“Right.” Sam manages a smile, shakes the strange sense of déja-vu. “Guess so.”

Sliding into the passenger’s seat feels more familiar than it should, and Sam tries desperately to ignore it. Tries to convince himself that there’s nothing abnormal about this weekend, that he’s just spending a couple days to catch up with his pseudo-estranged brother before starting his internship.

Somehow, he doesn’t think it’s going to be quite that easy.

The first couple hours aren’t very eventful. Sam stays quiet, and Dean seems content to focus on the road, fiddles with the radio occasionally. It’s not entirely comfortable, but Sam’s not sure he wants to break the silence. Not until he remembers that they’ve missed two entire years of each other’s lives, and more than anything, he’s dying to know exactly what Dean’s been doing all this time.

He shifts around a little, clears his throat. Glances at the radio, then his brother, who’s looking at him now. “So what’s been going on? I mean… you kind of just dropped off the face of the earth. Where’ve you been?”

Dean shrugs. Looks back out the windshield. It’s been raining for the past few miles, and the glass is peppered with water droplets between sweeps of the wipers and up in the corners where they can’t reach. Sam’s momentarily distracted by the hypnotic motion, watches as the beads of water in the wipers’ path are erased so smoothly. As if they were never there to begin with. “Just around. Living out the back seat. Nothing too exciting.”

Sam’s pretty sure that’s the opposite of not exciting, but keeps it to himself. “Then why didn’t you call? Why’d you stop visiting? I mean, hell, if you were on the road anyways, visiting should’ve been easy, right?”

Sam wonders if he’s imagining the way Dean’s shoulders are sitting stiffly, not as relaxed as he seemed a few minutes ago. “It just… didn’t happen. I was busy. Sorry.”

After a childhood full of his brother making time for him every single day without a word of complaint, Sam doesn’t think that excuse makes a whole lot of sense. Not for two whole years of silence. “Too busy to spend five minutes on the phone?”

Dean turns to face him again, and Sam’s startled by the intensity of the look in his eyes. Takes a moment to calm down, remind himself that this is his brother, not someone he needs to be scared of. “I didn’t have time, Sam. End of story. Look, I’m here now, right? Can’t that be enough?”

It doesn’t answer a single one of Sam’s questions, but the expression on Dean’s face tells him he shouldn’t push any further. Not right now, at the very least. “Yeah,” he says, voice a little softer. Defeated. “Sorry. I just…” A pause. “I missed you.”

Some of the tension bleeds out of Dean’s shoulders, and his eyes soften. “Yeah, I know.” He turns towards the road again, settles against the back of the seat. “I missed you, too, kiddo.”

The words feel heavy for reasons Sam finds himself unable to identify. There’s something here he’s missing, but whatever it is escapes his grasp. This seems to be happening with increasingly frustrating frequency the more time he spends with Dean, and it makes him wonder where the reaction comes from. He files it away to investigate later.

“Can I turn the radio on?” Sam asks suddenly, tired of the silence in the car. There’s the purr of the engine and the patter of the rain on the roof and not much else. If they’re not going to talk about whatever Dean’s been doing for the past two years, he doesn’t want it to be completely quiet, either.

“Sure.” Dean shrugs, then waves his hand in the direction of Sam’s knees. “There’s tapes in the shoebox under the seat, too. Try one of those. Don’t know what kind of reception we’ll get out here.”

Sam does as he’s told and brings the box out, starts sifting through it. Raises his eyebrows at the fact that it’s full of actual, legitimate cassette tapes. “Dude, these things are older than _you_. Ever thought of updating your music collection?”

Dean snorts. “Shut up and pick one. That’s the good stuff, so be happy you’re picking at all.”

Sam rolls his eyes and digs around some more. They’re mostly classic rock, but one sticks out, seems a little bit odd among the rest. “The Beatles?” It doesn’t exactly fit in with the rest of the collection. “I didn’t know you liked them.”

For a long moment, Sam thinks that Dean hasn’t heard him. His brother’s quiet, and when he glances over, Dean’s still staring out the front window. But then he clears his throat, shifts a little bit. “I don’t,” he murmurs. Drums his fingers on the wheel for a moment. “Just one song.”

Sam raises an eyebrow at that, looks back to the tape in his hand. He notices “Hey Jude” scrawled in messy black marker across the front of it and figures that’s the one he’s talking about. It’s got something itching at the back of his mind again, like there’s something that should be familiar about this particular choice, but then, maybe Dean’s just picky about what kind of British music he’ll listen to. “Oh.”

“Just… be careful with them, okay?” The teasing tone is gone from Dean’s voice, and he almost sounds a little anxious. It seems out of place after the confidence he’s used to seeing in his brother. “Please.”

“Yeah,” Sam replies, eyeing his brother with concern. “Sure.” He returns the tape to the box before picking out a different one- AC/DC is written on the outside, this time- and carefully removes it from its case before sliding it into the player.

The music starts, and Dean smiles a little bit, starts nodding his head along with the beat. That seems like the end of their conversation, and Sam lets it drop, slides a little lower down in his seat. However this trip is going to go, it seems like there are going to be a lot of blanks to fill in whether he likes it or not. The only question that remains is how many of them will remain empty.

They’ve been in the car for three hours or so when Sam finally cracks, can’t take the lack of conversation or the uncertainty anymore. Speaks just loud enough to be heard over the music. “Where are we going?”

It takes Dean a moment to answer, humming along to the song that’s playing, and he doesn’t look over when he does. “Jericho.”

Sam frowns, recognizes the name vaguely. “California? Why Jericho?”

Dean shrugs. Still doesn’t look over. “Because.”

Sam’s not about to accept that answer, though. Not when he could be comfortable in bed with his girlfriend right now. “Dean, c’mon. Just tell me. There weren’t any cheesy landmarks in Jericho last time I checked, so why are we going there?”

“Can’t you just trust me?” Dean does look over then, something almost pleading on his face. There’s something else hidden in his eyes, too, but Sam doesn’t know what to think about it. “It’s not a big deal. We’ll be there in like an hour, okay?”

“Please?” Sam tries something he hasn’t used in years; he widens his eyes a little bit, makes an attempt to look sad. He can remember his brother joking about his puppy dog eyes before, so maybe they’ll help him out here. “I just want to know.”

There’s a long moment of silence while Dean’s eyes flit over his face, then a heaving sigh. “Fine, fine,” he grumbles, and Sam fights a triumphant grin. “Put those away.”

Sam lets his face return to normal, settles back in his seat. “So why Jericho?” he repeats, like Dean might change his mind if he’s not insistent enough.

When Dean responds, the words are hurried, crammed together like he’s trying to get them out as quickly as possible and causing his tongue to trip over itself in the rush. “Dad needs our help.”

Sam thinks, for one long, detached moment, that he’s dreaming.

He can’t clearly remember the last time he saw his father. It’s been more than a decade, now, and the last memory he has is blurry with emotion, dropped off along with Dean at their aunt and uncle’s house before the man had vanished from their lives permanently. At least, that was how it’d seemed at the time.

“What?” he manages to croak out when he realizes just how long he’s been quiet. There’s not much else Sam can think to say; he’d long since accepted that John was dead, or worse.

He’d been young when their mother died, and he has a feeling his memories of that period aren’t terribly reliable, but even now he can hear the voices of friends and relatives. Concerned glances at their little family of three after her death. The mumblings from who was then their sole caregiver about monsters, demons, something unnatural being responsible for the accident.

Maybe Dean knows what happened better than he does, but all Sam remembers of his father now is that everyone more or less dismissed him as a schizophrenic drunk when he ran out all those years ago, and that had been that. It hadn’t felt like there’d even been a loss to mourn.

“He needs our help.” Dean’s voice is tightly controlled, and it suddenly occurs to Sam that maybe he and his brother don’t really feel the same way about their father. He wishes he could remember more of his childhood, remember how his brother had reacted to being abandoned like that. Wonders if maybe it’d help explain what’s going on right now. “And we’re going to give it to him.”

“What kind of help?” Sam refrains from making a comment about the only help the man needs being available in some kind of psychiatric ward. “Dean, I haven’t even spoken to him since I was- what, ten? Eleven, maybe? I think if he wanted my help, he’d have asked for it earlier.”

Dean makes a frustrated sound, and suddenly Sam’s jerked forward against his seatbelt as the car makes a sharp turn and a sudden stop, leaving them halfway on the shoulder of the road. Dean turns to him, and there’s a tight set to his jaw that suggests he’s far from pleased. “He needs us,” he repeats, enunciates each word like there’s some kind of loss of understanding between them. “And we’re going to help him. Okay?”

Sam takes a deep breath through his nose. “No, Dean, not okay,” he says plainly. “You know what else wasn’t okay? When he dumped us on Aunt Cheryl and Uncle Tom. When he left in the middle of the damn night without even telling us that he was leaving, and left it up to them to raise us. Like we didn’t even matter.”

Dean’s silent for a long moment, something almost dangerous in his eyes, and for a long moment, Sam thinks that he’s pushed too far. That Dean’s going to…

Going to what? Kick him out of the car? Force him to walk home? Maybe they haven’t seen each other in a while, but Sam knows his brother wouldn’t do that to him. He doesn’t think about all the other ways that sentence could end.

“We’re helping him.” Dean’s voice it flat, and he looks away from Sam. “He needs us. He’s family, Sam. We can’t just leave him alone out there.”

That, at least, they can agree on, it seems.

They’re back on the road within a moment or two, and they’re both quiet for a while. Sam’s mulling over this whole situation, trying to understand why Dean’s trying to help their father now of all times. How they even ended up here in the first place.

“Just trust me,” Dean says. He’s quiet, but loud enough to startle Sam out of his thoughts. “He needs us, okay? And he’s our dad. Just… go with me here.”

And maybe it’s been a couple years, and maybe they’re not as close as they once were, and maybe something’s going on under the façade that Dean’s putting up, but Sam can’t bring himself to deny his big brother such a simple request. Not even now.

“Yeah. Alright, Dean.”

New York is going to have to wait a few days. Sam has a sinking feeling that it won’t be the only thing put on hold.

As promised, they roll into Jericho within the hour. The sun’s just starting to rise, and Sam squints as it reflects in the side mirror. It’s typical small-town America: a few locally-owned businesses on the way down the main strips, some residential areas branching off into side streets. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, though that thought in itself seems a little odd. Most of what he can remember is growing up in Lawrence before moving to Palo Alto for school, and neither place is especially small.

He loses the train of thought when Dean finally parks, bringing them into a motel’s lot and shutting off the engine. He rolls his shoulders, glances over. “This is where Dad was staying. We can probably ask at the front office which room he’s in.”

It sounds logical enough, and Sam’s too tired to bother arguing. He hasn’t managed to sleep since leaving Palo Alto, and he’s barely keeping his eyes open now. Maybe a roadside inn isn’t the best option, but he’ll take what he can get at this point. “Sure, okay,” he mumbles, rubs at his eyes before opening the door and stepping outside.

It’s still cool outside, for California, and Sam shivers a little, wraps his arms around himself for warmth. The air is heavy with moisture after the rain, and he’s still hugging himself as he follows Dean to the manager’s office, trying to stay quiet and close.

They’re lucky someone’s there at all, considering the hour, and the older woman at the counter looks just as tired as they are. “Looking for a room?” she asks, glances between them. It occurs to Sam that they don’t look very much alike, but before he can tell her that they’re related, Dean’s speaking.

“Kinda. Do you have a John Winchester staying here? He’s our dad, and we’re supposed to be meeting him.”

If the woman begrudges Dean for making her check for something like that at such an ungodly hour, she hides it well. She produces a large binder and flips through a few pages, squints as she traces over names and dates with a fingertip. “Not right now,” she responds eventually. “He checked out a few days ago.”

Even as Dean shrugs and asks if they can get a room for themselves, Sam’s trying to process that. Did they really drive all this way only to find out that John isn’t even here? How are they supposed to help their father if they don’t know where he is?

Before he realizes it, Dean’s steering him out of the office and back to the car to grab their bags, shoves one in Sam’s arms before leading him towards their room. It’s not until Dean’s working on unlocking the door that he manages to speak. “Dad’s not here.”

Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “Nope.”

“So then why the hell are we?”

The door clicks open and Dean gives him a look over his shoulder before heading inside. “Because it’s like five in the morning and I’ve been driving all night and I want to sleep. We’ll talk about this tomorrow, okay?”

 _No,_ Sam wants to say. _It’s not okay. Tell me what’s going on._ But Dean’s not the only one who’s exhausted right now, and Sam’s barely able to make it to the bed he deems as his own before collapsing on top of it, groaning softly into the sheets. They’re probably stained to all hell and would disgust him if he looked too close, but right now, he doesn’t care.

There’s a chuckle behind him, and some shifting around as his shoes are tugged off his feet and he’s rolled over. It’s not until Dean’s hands find the button on his jeans that Sam forces his eyes open, squirms away slightly. “Dean?”

Dean just raises his eyebrows a bit. “Just tryin’ to help you get comfortable, man. Sleeping in jeans sucks, trust me.”

Sam gives his brother a slightly suspicious look, but relaxes slowly, allows Dean to help him get out of his pants. As promised, Dean rolls him under the covers a moment later, tucks him in and all. Sam feels oddly safe, like he’s five years old again and protected by his own naïveté. 

“Night, kiddo.” There’s fondness in Dean’s voice, and something that almost sounds sad. Sam doesn’t have time to linger on it, though, already drifting off. The last thing he’s aware of is the brush of lips against his forehead before the world fades away into a dark haze.

Sam wakes to the sound of the shower running, and for a few long moments, he has no idea where he is. The water damage on the ceiling bring it all rushing back, though, and he winces with the flood of information. Figures it has to be Dean in the shower and sits up slowly, runs his fingers through his hair. Wonders what he’s supposed to do now.

Even being here for the reason Dean apparently intended- helping their father one way or another- had been a little hard to swallow, but now that the man’s not even here, Sam doesn’t know how he’s supposed to stay. It almost hurts knowing that Dean’s line about catching up had been complete bullshit, makes it hard to imagine actually spending any real time together.

His eyes suddenly move to Dean’s cell, where it sits on the bedside table wedged between their beds. Dean probably has their dad’s number, right? Maybe Sam can call him, figure out where he is, and get this over with. He doesn’t want to spend any longer out here than he has to, not with his life waiting for him on the other side of the country. 

He’s picked up Dean’s phone and started scrolling through his brother’s contact list when the shower cuts off and his half-formed plans are dashed into nothing. Sam puts the phone back where he found it as quick as possible, desperate not to get caught for reasons he can’t name. The bathroom door opens to let out a cloud of steam and, soon afterwards, Dean, wearing nothing but the towel cinched around his waist.

“Morning.” If his brother has any shame, he’s hiding it now. Everything’s there to see, freckles smattered across smooth skin that’s occasionally broken up by scar tissue. The marks are concerning, and Sam wants to ask, but he can’t quite work up the nerve. 

Dean walks across the room, humming to himself, crouches down where his bag is sitting on the floor and starts digging around inside. “Left you some hot water. Wanna shower, then we can go grab some breakfast?”

It takes one glance at the clock for Sam to decide it’s a little late for breakfast- they must have slept in after being up so late- but he’s mostly just concerned about his brother. It seems bizarre that Dean’s so okay with this, their apparently absent father. With how serious he’d gotten last night about helping him out, Sam had assumed that there’d be some kind of mad search to hunt him down. It feels… off.

“Yeah, sure, but… Dean, what are we gonna do about Dad?” Sam’s careful with his word choice, sits up properly in bed and eyes his brother with concern. He’s ready for Dean to snap at him, to yell, but neither of those things happen. 

Dean glances up, seems to consider him for a moment, then goes back to finding himself something to wear for the day. “We’re gonna help him. I told you.”

Sam frowns. “Dean, he’s not here. We can’t help him right now.”

Dean hums like he suddenly understands something he wasn’t getting before. “He doesn’t need to be here for us to help him, Sam.” Says it like it should’ve been obvious from the start. “Now hurry up and get yourself presentable. There’s this really great diner down the road that has awesome pancakes.”

Sam’s halfway out of bed when something occurs to him. “How do you know that? Have you been here before?”

There’s a second of hesitation before Dean replies, voice even. “Saw it on the way in last night. They had a sign about the pancakes, so we might as well check it out, right?”

There’s still something not quite right about this whole thing, but Sam nods slowly. “Right. Okay, I guess… I guess I’ll go shower, then.”

Dean hums in response, standing up with a pair of jeans and a shirt in hand. “’Kay. Don’t take too long.”

Sam’s just glancing away when Dean drops his towel, and he tries to ignore the way his cheeks heat up and hurries into the bathroom. So maybe Dean’s boundaries need some work, but they’re brothers, right? It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t be bothered by this.

That train of thought leads to a slightly distressing shower where Sam’s left with the decision of whether or not it’s morally wrong to jack off with your older brother in the next room. In the end, he just gets it over with, makes himself think about Jessica, her soft curves and warm mouth, and leaves the shower with a blush high in his cheeks that he hopes Dean won’t notice.

Dean’s casual “hope you were thinking about someone pretty” quickly destroys that, and Sam just blushes harder as he hurries to get dressed.

His brother still looks amused when they leave, sliding back into the car after locking the door to their room. Throws him an easy grin. “You’re cute when you blush.”

The comment comes off as more than a little odd, and Sam glances over, raises his eyebrows. “I’m… what?”

Sam blinks, and it seems as if all the amusement has vanished from Dean’s face. He looks almost startled, then sad, then he shakes his head sharply and clears his throat. “Nothing. Sorry, just… forget it. Haven’t had my coffee.”

Sam doesn’t think he’s going to forget anything about that particular moment any time soon, but he nods anyways, accepting the excuse. Shifts in place and glances out the window. “Right,” he mumbles. “Um. You said something about pancakes, right?”

“Yeah.” Some of the cheer has returned to Dean’s voice as he starts the car, but it sounds artificial. Sam pretends not to notice.

It’s quiet for a moment or two before Sam remembers his attempts to contact their father earlier. There’s no reason Dean should be mad about him just asking, right? He speaks quickly before he can talk himself out of it.

“Why don’t we just call Dad to ask where he is?”

Dean actually seems surprised, as if the thought hasn’t occurred to him. “Uh… I mean, he doesn’t usually pick up the phone. He’s a busy guy.”

The idea of their borderline insane father being busy is more than a little concerning, but Sam brushes it aside for the moment. “I can still leave a message,” he points out, encouraged now that Dean hasn’t completely shot down his suggestion. “If he doesn’t pick up, I mean. Please, Dean? I mean, if nothing else, maybe it’ll make this easier for us, right?”

Dean nods slowly. Still looks a little bit uncertain as he digs his phone out of his jacket pocket and offers it to Sam. Actually, he almost looks nervous. It’s odd, but Sam disregards it. “Yeah, I guess. Go for it, then.”

Sam takes the phone gratefully, scrolls through the list of names until he finds the one simply listed as “Dad.” He clicks on it and brings the phone to his ear, frowns when it doesn’t even ring. It’s startling to hear the gruff voice as it cuts straight to voicemail, something familiar in the way a half-forgotten dream is. He hasn’t heard his dad’s voice in more than ten years, and to suddenly have it playing in his ear is a little bit disorienting.

“This is John Winchester. I can’t pick up right now. If it’s an emergency, call my son, Dean. He can help.” He rattles off a number that Sam recognizes vaguely- he takes a moment to be surprised that Dean’s still got the same one as when he left two years ago- and the message cuts off.

Sam frowns, brings the phone down to look at it accusingly. Tries not to wonder about what kind of emergency people might be calling him with or why Dean would be able to help them. “Straight to voicemail. Maybe his phone’s dead.”

“Maybe.” Dean’s response is a little rushed, and he reaches out to take his phone back. Snatches it away and ends the call before Sam can leave a message as he’d originally intended. “Like I said, he’s a busy guy. He doesn’t pick up most of the time.”

The fact that Dean’s apparently familiar with their estranged father’s telephone habits is a little worrying, but Sam doesn’t have the energy to pursue it right now. He tucks it away to pick at later, settling down for the rest of the drive. He’s starving- he hasn’t eaten since the graduation ceremony last night- and he knows he’ll function better once he’s got some food in him.

The drive to the diner only takes a couple more minutes, and when they arrive, Sam finds himself looking for any sign about pancakes. Besides a general announcement that they serve breakfast until noon- lucky for them- there’s nothing he can see, and he almost calls Dean on it. 

Glancing over and seeing the childish excitement on his brother’s face stops him short. “C’mon, they’ve got chocolate chip,” Dean says, getting out of the car as he speaks. Sam can only follow him, has no desire to cause Dean any distress. Not this early in the morning, at least.

The diner is such a stereotype that Sam wonders briefly if they’re on some kind of movie set. Checkered floors and vinyl seats; the only thing missing are the roller skates on the waitresses. The woman who leads them to their booth is a motherly type, smiles warmly and promises to bring them their coffee in just a moment, and Sam decides that, for the moment, it doesn’t matter how Dean knew this place was here. 

“So we’re gonna get to work right after breakfast,” Dean says, and Sam glances up, confused. “Got some stuff to check out just to make sure we’re on the right track, then we’ll get going, okay?”

“Get to work?” Sam repeats. “Dean, what… I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Helping Dad.” Dean shrugs. “I know what we’ve got to do, I just wanted to eat first. At least he’s not here to rag on me for that, right?”

If it’s supposed to be a joke, it falls flat, and Sam frowns. “You still haven’t even told me why we’re here, seeing how he isn’t. What kind of help are we supposed to be giving him, anyways?”

Dean glances somewhere over Sam’s shoulder and smiles. “Thanks, ma’am,” he says sincerely, and Sam looks back to see their waitress- Margaret, according to her name tag- with a pot of coffee and a couple mugs. The greeting earns Dean a smile and a wink as the pot’s set down, and then she hurries off again to help someone else.

Apparently, Dean drinks his coffee black, takes a long sip from what has to be a scalding hot mug without so much as flinching. Sam’s throat burns just watching it, and it’s almost enough to make him forget the topic at hand. Almost.

“Dean.”

Dean’s eyes flicker up again, and he swallows down his mouthful before sighing. “Look, it’s kinda complicated. You just need to trust me right now, okay? I promise it’ll make sense once we get going, it’s just a little hard to explain unless we’re already out there, y’know?”

Sam doesn’t know, actually, but nods all the same. “Fine,” he sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Feels like he’s putting an awful lot of trust in someone he isn’t sure deserves it right now. “Just- I want to know, alright? I’ll help you, I just want to know what’s going on sooner or later.”

“Soon,” Dean promises. “Just not right this second. Right this second is pancakes.” He barely glances at the menu before setting it down again, and it gives Sam an opportunity to do the same. He’s not exactly surprised by the offerings, and it’s not hard to pick out the omelette he wants to get.

Breakfast passes quickly after that, no real conversation between them as Dean shovels down his pancakes and Sam works his way through his food at a more civilized pace. If he’s perfectly honest with himself, he wouldn’t even know where to begin with small talk, let alone anything more important. He doesn’t know what to expect any more from his brother, and safe topics of conversation are beyond him for the moment.

The more time that passes, though, and the closer they get to leaving, the more Sam thinks about what’s ahead of them for the day. They’re helping their dad, according to Dean, but what does that even mean right now? All Sam remembers of the man is his instability and what other people used to say about him before the whole subject became taboo, and none of it is especially positive. Frankly, the fact that John’s even still alive is a surprise all in itself.

But he knows he’s going to find out soon. Dean’s calling for the check, and Sam feels his nervousness growing as Margaret drops it off, smiles when Dean leaves her a generous tip. They’re leaving a moment later, in the car within a minute or two. Dean seems to know exactly where they’re going, and Sam frowns, wonders how long he’ll be able to go without asking any questions.

The answer, as it turns out, is three minutes.

“Where are we going?”

Dean doesn’t even look up. “Centennial Highway.”

Sam frowns, vaguely remembers seeing a sign for it on their way into town early that morning. “Okay. But… why?”

“To help Dad.”

That’s as much of a response as Sam manages to get out of his brother, and he’s left frustrated and confused. He doesn’t know why he’s even here or what Dean expects him to do if he doesn’t know anything about how they’re supposed to be helping. He’s starting to wonder if he really needs to be here at all, considering Dean’s doing everything entirely on his own.

Arriving there doesn’t answer any questions. The highway looks normal, if a little worn- the road’s a little torn up, and the power lines running down either side of it look dangerously close to collapsing- and Sam’s squinting out the window in some kind of search for answers when he spots a small roadside memorial. Flowers are laid beside and otherwise attached to a telephone pole, and he can just barely make out a photograph set among them. 

He doesn’t even realize they’re slowing down until Dean parks them just a few feet short of the memorial, and Sam looks up, confused. “What’re you doing?”

“Gotta check something out.” Dean hums to himself, reaches into the back seat for a duffle that he brings into his lap. A small device that looks like a bastardized old Walkman comes out first- Sam wonders if maybe Dean actually owns some CDs, after all- but it’s the handgun he pulls out next that catches Sam’s attention.

“Dean, what the hell?” His eyes are wide, and he nearly leans over to snatch the weapon out of his brother’s hands. “Is that a gun?”

“Yeah. Just wait in the car, okay?” Dean doesn’t seem bothered by Sam’s mounting distress, and gets out of the car, circles around the front. The easy way he handles the gun makes Sam feel a little sick. 

Ignoring the orders he’s been given, Sam gets out and follows Dean slowly as he heads to the little memorial, watches with confused fascination as his brother pulls out the Walkman and starts waving it around the area. It starts beeping when it’s lifted a little higher, and then Dean’s grinning triumphantly, crouches down to examine the memorial more closely.

“Dean?” Sam asks cautiously, stepping closer. “What are you doing? What is that?”

Dean doesn’t look up, apparently too busy examining the photograph. He suddenly pulls something out of his jacket, a meticulously-folded piece of newspaper, and holds it up alongside the memorial once he’s smoothed out the creases. Sam’s shocked when he realizes the obituary in the paper matches the photo of the girl that’s taped to the pole. “Dean, please.”

Dean does look up then, and he looks almost excited, which makes his next statement even more disturbing. “Did you know that there’ve been three deaths on this highway in the past year?”

Sam isn’t sure what that has to do with anything, and his concern is mounting into fear. “What- that has nothing to do with anything. Dean, come on, we should go.” The longer they stay here, the worse the feeling of unease gets.

“Three deaths,” Dean repeats, something urgent in his words. “Don’t you think that’s a little strange?”

Sam glances down the road. Notes the potholes, the sharp turn that they’ve just come off. It doesn’t get icy in California very often, but heavy rain would probably make this road dangerous as hell. “No, not really. What is that thing?” He looks back to Dean, gestures to the device he’s still holding, the beep having sped up into an insistent, mechanical whine.

Dean looks excited again, and Sam tries not to let it affect him. Tries not to remember how much mental stability is tied to genetics. “It’s an EMF meter. Electromagnetic frequencies. It senses electrical signals, Sam.”

Sam wonders if Dean thinks that’s a proper answer to his question. “Let me rephrase. Why the hell do you have a- an EMF meter?”

“To sense electrical waves.” Dean rolls his eyes like it should be obvious. 

Sam glances up towards the power lines. Dean doesn’t seem to notice. “Why?”

“Three deaths,” Dean says again, like it should explain everything. “Three deaths, and all of them car crashes. But a few years back, on that bridge down the road? One girl killed herself.”

Sam’s starting to feel sick again. He tries to shove it down, forces out a “so?” Wherever Dean’s going with this, Sam’s morbid curiosity isn’t going to let it drop.

“So suicide makes it hard for spirits to find a proper resting place.” Dean’s eyes are alight with glee, and Sam thinks, for a moment, that he’s dreaming. That this is some kind of sick nightmare. “So they end up hanging around and eventually, they’ll start terrorizing other people, just because. Usually for a reason.” He holds up the EMF meter again, flicks a switch that causes the noise to stop and the lights to die out. “Haven’t figured out this one’s M.O. yet, but she’s killing people, Sammy. People who drive on this highway.” He pats the side of the pole before standing, flashing a grin. “And we’re gonna stop her.”

Absurdly, the only thing that occurs to Sam to ask is about their father. “I thought we were helping Dad?” he croaks out.

Dean’s smile dims a little bit, but he nods. “We are. He was hunting her, too.”

The term seems too mundane- hunting- considering the sheer insanity that Dean’s showing. Maybe this is why he was gone for two years, Sam thinks dazedly. Maybe he was off losing his mind somewhere. Maybe he should’ve invested in a few more locks for his apartment.

“Come on,” Dean urges, then, standing up. He takes a moment to tuck the gun in the back of his jeans, and Sam tries not to start hyperventilating. “We’ve got some work to do. Gotta make sure we’re icing the right chick, y’know?” 

Sam feels like he’s running on autopilot as he follows Dean back to the car. Slides into the passenger’s side. His eyes are still locked on the memorial as Dean pulls a U-turn and drives back towards town.

“You’ve probably got some questions,” Dean says casually, and Sam startles a little bit. “And that’s cool. But I’ve just got one guy I need to talk to first, okay?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “But yeah, ghosts? Real. We’re hunting one right now.”

If Dean expects that to somehow put Sam at ease, he’s sorely mistaken. Sam’s left clutching the edge of the leather seats so tight that his fingers ache, staring out the window and trying to keep his breakfast down.

His brother’s insane. That’s the only possible explanation for what’s going on here, and the realization hurts more than Sam would’ve expected. All the half-formed hopes of reconnecting have been shattered, and his only concern now is getting out of this whole thing with his own sanity intact- and maybe, if at all possible, getting Dean some help.

The drive might’ve been a silent one but for Dean’s humming, a sound entirely too cheerful for what they’re doing right now. All Sam can think about is the gun his brother has on him, the eager grin he’d been wearing talking about the deaths on the highway. How someone could possibly make the leap to car accidents being caused by ghosts is beyond him, but Dean seems to have no trouble making that exact assumption. It makes Sam wonder what, exactly, his brother’s been up to for the past couple years.

Sam’s still confused when Dean pulls up outside a shabby-looking house, worn down with the years and looking just about ready to collapse in on itself. Sam eyes it up with a concerned look, glances at his brother. “What’re we doing here?”

“Told you, I gotta talk to a guy.” Dean shuts off the engine and glances over. “Can you grab me the little box in the glove compartment?”

At this point, Sam feels like he should be ready for anything, but the little box of cards still catches him off-guard. It takes a few long moments for him to realize what they are, and he feels the colour drain from his face.

Police. FBI. Homeland Security. The thing’s full of fake IDs, and Sam thinks somewhere in the back of his head that the contents of this car are probably, on their own, enough to land Dean in a maximum-security prison for the rest of his life.

It has him wondering what else Dean’s got hidden in here, and Sam’s thoughts end up at the trunk. He has a brief, morbid moment where he wonders if there’s ever been a body in there, and only barely manages to shake it off and hand Dean the box.

“Thanks.” Dean flashes him a grin, but Sam’s too out of it to really think about responding right now. “I’m thinking curious reporter on cold cases, yeah?” Sam hopes his brother isn’t actually looking for any input, because he can’t even speak right now. There’s some shuffling around that Sam interprets as Dean digging through the box, a sound of satisfaction, and then Dean’s moving to get out of the car. “I’ll be back in a few.”

With that, his brother’s gone, and Sam’s left wondering what the hell he’s gotten himself into.

There’s a moment where Sam wonders if this is his chance. To call the police, to call a cab, to get the hell away from Jericho, California before his brother comes back. He doesn’t know how he’s going to survive much longer around Dean at this rate, tries to imagine how much worse things can get. Whatever the answer to that question is, he can’t imagine it’ll be anything good.

The indecision renders Sam more or less useless while he waits in the car. All he ends up doing is pulling out his phone and smiling a tiny bit when he sees he has a new text from Jessica. He starts responding, reassuring her that he’s still alive. Making sure none of his anxiety comes through the messages. He doesn’t want her to worry, not when he’s not in any danger. To the best of his knowledge, anyways.

He gets so absorbed in texting his girlfriend that he doesn’t notice Dean returning until the door opens and closes, the car rocking a little bit as Dean sits down. “Who’s that?”

Sam barely glances up. “Jess. She worries too much.”

There’s a long silence that prompts Sam to pause, looking up at his brother properly. Dean’s jaw is clenched, and Sam wonders for a confused moment what he did to upset him before it relaxes. “Lucky to have someone looking out for you,” he says shortly, starts the car and drops his ID back into the little box. Sam returns it to the glove compartment without being told. “I was right. It’s the girl who killed herself.”

“What?” And just like that, Sam’s yanked back into the reality of the situation. Imagined ghosts and a crazy brother. “What are you talking about?”

“The ghost.” Dean shrugs as he backs up, throwing an arm across the back of the seat and watching over his shoulder. “It’s the girl who jumped off the bridge. Constance Welch. She’s the one killing people.”

“How could…” Sam shakes his head with disbelief. Wonders all over again how Dean possibly could’ve come to that conclusion. “What makes you think that?”

“Because her husband was cheating on her.” Dean turns back onto the road, straightens up and throws Sam an easy grin. “We got us a Woman in White, Sammy.”

Whatever that means, Dean looks far too excited for Sam’s liking, and he doesn’t know what to do but nod slowly and try not to let his concern show on his face. “Right. Woman in White.” A pause. “What is that?”

“They’re a kind of vengeful spirit,” Dean explains, sounds like he’s rehearsed the definition in his head a million times. “With very particular circumstances. The husband cheats, the wife finds out, she kills her children, then commits suicide right after.” He shrugs. “I know it sounds weirdly specific, but it’s more common than you’d think.”

Sam’s still caught up in the whole ghosts being real thing, so he doesn’t have the mental capacity to worry about the intricacies of their background stories. “So- what, you think some ghost is killing people? Dean, that highway was a mess. If you were driving fast enough, we’d probably die, too.”

“Except that we wouldn’t.” Dean grins as he glances over. “Because to attract her attention, you need to be unfaithful. You’re an honest kid, and I’m not tied down, so we’re all good, right?” 

Sam nods slowly, even though he’s pretty sure they’re the opposite of good right now. “You… you said you’d tell me what was going on,” he said slowly. “With- with all of this.”

Dean hums in response and nods a couple times. “Right. Okay, well, first of all- I already told you about the ghosts. And I mentioned that Dad was hunting this one, right?” He waits for Sam to nod before continuing. “He’s been doing it for a while now. A long while. Almost since Mom died, actually.”

That takes Sam a long few seconds to process. All this time, all the nights spent worrying if their dad was alive, if he even cared about them, and he was… what? Running around pretending to be a Ghostbuster? It’s as disappointing as it is difficult to swallow. “Okay,” he says, regardless, just trying to keep up with the whole thing. “So why are we here, then?”

“See, that’s the thing.” Dean pauses, and when Sam looks over, he actually looks a little bit hesitant. “You know when I stopped calling? Stopped visiting, freaked you and Tom and Cheryl the fuck out? Dad, uh. He tracked me down. Said he’d been looking for me for a while.”

That thought is a little sobering, and it takes Sam a moment to recover. In hindsight, he almost feels a little guilty; this whole time, he’d assumed that their father left because he didn’t want them anymore. It never occurred to him that maybe he’d missed them.

It gives him a new insight to Dean’s disappearance, too. Apparently his brother hadn’t been the one to make the call on that one, and it’s a little bit calming, if nothing else.

He shakes off that feeling and tries to focus again. Clears his throat. “Why’d he want to find you?” he asks, feels like it’s probably important. “Did he just… want to talk, or something?”

Dean smiles a little, but it looks sad. “No, not quite,” he murmurs. He doesn’t expand past that. “He said he needed my help. Hunting, basically. I didn’t believe it at first either, y’know. Sounded pretty crazy, but after a couple jobs… how could I not?”

They’re just pulling back into the motel now- Sam’s surprised all over again by how tiny this town is- and Dean parks, pauses for a moment. “C’mon, we can talk inside.”

Sam just nods, opens his door and gets out of the car. He definitely has a lot of questions to ask, most of them centering around whether or not Dean’s fucking with him. He figures his brother can have a chance to explain himself, though, and decides he’ll give Dean that chance.

Dean’s not far behind him and unlocks the room once they reach the door. He pulls the gun out of his jeans- Sam had almost forgotten it was there, and it’s impossible not to flinch at how close it is to him- and sets it down on the room’s desk, sits down in the chair. He waits until Sam settles down on the edge of the bed before starting.

“So, monsters.” Dean shifts a little in his seat, seems to be trying to figure out what to say. “Let’s start simple. That car crash that killed Mom? That wasn’t an accident. She was killed by a demon. Dad always said he saw black eyes that night, but no one believed him. I don’t know if you remember that or not.”

Sam doesn’t. Not clearly, anyways. That whole time period is a blur for him; Mom’s death, the funeral, whatever happened immediately after. Hell, most of his childhood and teen years are a jumbled mess in his head. It’s not something he’s ever questioned, mostly because he just gives himself a headache whenever he tries to think about it too hard. Living in a haze of broken memories is what he’s gotten used to, and it’s never really occurred to him that it’s far from normal.

But either way, part of Dean’s little speech does catch his attention. There’s something about the mention of black eyes that peaks his interest. There’s an image in his head, hard to grasp but just barely there, a flicker of headlights and emptiness before it’s gone. He blinks a couple times, wonders if he’d imagined it.

Dean seems to accept his silence as permission to continue, and starts speaking again a moment later, leaving Sam to wonder about whether or not he should be worried about his overactive imagination. “A little while after the funeral, he basically sold the house, loaded us up in the car, and dipped. He didn’t tell anyone where he was going or what he was doing, just took us and took off. He didn’t tell us at the time, really, but he was hunting it. That demon.” Dean shifts, his eyes a little more intense now. “The one that killed mom. He wanted to get revenge.

“But the thing’s a slippery son of a bitch, and the trail went cold. So, Dad started looking into other stuff. Weird deaths, disappearances, the whole nine. And he started hunting other things, too. Vengeful spirits, poltergeists, wendigos, werewolves, shapeshifters…” Dean’s on the edge of his seat, now, looks almost excited to be sharing this information. Sam imagines it must be nice to be able to say all of this without fear of being locked up for the rest of your life. “Anything that might be trying to hurt people. It’s hard, sometimes, because the living ones? Half the time, they look just like people, too. But there are always ways to tell.”

Sam feels like he’s going to regret this, but he asks, anyways. “What ways?”

“Depends on the monster.” Dean shrugs. “They’ve all got different vulnerabilities. Like ghosts, they can’t handle salt. They can’t cross a salt line, and the way to get rid of them is to salt and burn their bones, or whatever else is tying them to the moral world. The stuff that’s alive, though, like- physically, so you can touch it-”

“Corporeal.” Sam can’t help but interject. “They’re corporeal.”

Dean rolls his eyes fondly. “Right, _corporeal._ Anyways, the suckers that bleed are a little different. Like werewolves, shapeshifters? Any of that family? They react to silver. Burns ‘em like it’s hot.”

Sam watches with slowly mounting horror as Dean starts to unbutton his shirt, and he suddenly remembers the scars from this morning. “Dean,” he whispers. “What are you doing?”

Dean doesn’t respond, and shrugs off the button-up he’s wearing to leave himself in a t-shirt. Holds his arm out, palm-up, for Sam’s inspection. “Cutting with a silver knife is to make sure someone’s not a ‘shifter. It doesn’t even really hurt if it’s sharp enough.”

The words sound like they’re coming from underwater as Sam’s eyes focus in on the scars. Rows of small, neat cuts along Dean’s forearm, even up past his elbow. “Oh my god,” he breathes, can’t help reaching out to grasp his brother’s arm tightly. “Did you do this?”

“What? No.” Dean shakes his head. “I know I’m not a shifter. But Dad needed to make sure, right?”

Sam’s not sure he’s ever felt such righteous anger at anyone until this moment. His hands are shaking and he can’t even make himself respond for several seconds. “Dad did this to you,” he manages, brushes the pad of his thumb over a couple scars. “Dean, you- you have to know this isn’t right.”

Dean shrugs, and looks alarmingly unfazed. “It’s just what he has to do. I mean-” He pauses, then, actually looks a little worried. “You should have a couple, too. He didn’t test us much as kids, and after a while I convinced him that I was testing you, instead, but…”

And just like that, a lot of things make a sickening amount of sense.

Sam pulls up his own sleeve with shaking hands and takes a long, hard look at the scars there. He knows them well enough, traces them sometimes when he can’t sleep, but all this time- he’d always assumed he had a stint with self-harm, just another component of the childhood he can’t remember. He can’t decide whether or not he prefers the truth.

“It’s really not a big deal,” Dean’s insisting, but Sam’s barely listening. “It’s just to make sure we’re safe, you know? To make sure we’re not monsters.”

That’s as much as Sam can take right now, and he stands up sharply, shaking a little bit. “Dean, monsters aren’t _real_ ,” he snaps, fingers curled bruisingly tight around Dean’s arm. The fact that his brother doesn’t resist the grip at all is alarming all in itself. Makes him wonder what, exactly, Dean has been enduring all these years. “God, Dad was crazy. He was- he was confused, and seeing things, and making them up because he couldn’t deal with Mom’s death. Don’t tell me he got you in on it, too.”

Dean’s expression is almost infuriatingly patient. “That’s what I thought when he found me,” he replies simply. “I didn’t believe him. But you haven’t seen what I’ve seen, Sam. They’re real. Trust me.”

Sam gives his brother a look of disbelief. “ _Trust_ you?” he repeats incredulously. “You vanish for two years, come back out of nowhere, break into my apartment, and steal me away to go- go _hunting monsters_ , and you want me to trust you?”

Dean doesn’t falter. Doesn’t break eye contact. “Yeah, Sammy,” he says softly. “I do.”

“Sam.” Sam looks away, fidgets a little in place. “It’s Sam.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and when Sam glances up again, Dean looks sad. Almost hurt. “Sam,” he corrects himself quietly. “Please, just… just help me finish this. For Dad. For me. Hell, for Mom. Anything.”

Sam’s not feeling particularly devoted to any of those people at this very moment, but the naked desperation on Dean’s face is impossible to ignore. “Yeah,” he sighs, closes his eyes and slowly sits down again. “Okay, fine. I’ll help. But just- just this. I have to be in New York on Monday, okay?”

“Yeah, ‘course.” Dean sounds tentatively hopeful, and Sam tries not to let it affect him too much. The vulnerability that’s coming and going with his brother is still throwing him off-kilter, makes it hard to maintain any kind of anger. “Thanks, Sam.” A long moment of pause before he starts speaking again, a little calmer than before. “That’s where I’ve been. With Dad. Helping him hunt and stuff. I’m sorry I didn’t call, I just… I didn’t want to get you all mixed up in it if I didn’t have to.”

Sam huffs out a bitter laugh. “I guess you really must have had to, then, huh?” He doesn’t bother waiting for Dean to respond. “Alright, fine. Then tell me about… Constance. The ghost. Woman in White. Whatever.”

Dean seems to relax a little bit, back in his element, and Sam spends the next hour or two being introduced to his family’s particular brand of crazy. He wonders if it would maybe be better if they were all serial killers, instead.

It’s not until later that he realizes just how disturbingly accurate that particular thought turns out to be.

Dean’s crash course on everything supernatural ends with him bringing Sam outside. It’s dark out, enough that no one’s going to be giving them too many curious looks, and Sam’s got a sinking feeling that’s exactly what his brother’s going for as he leads the way towards the car.

“Okay, so I need you to not freak out.” Dean’s unlocking the trunk, pops it open a moment later. It looks pretty basic; a towel, some spare tools. Old magazines. But then Dean reaches in and grabs a handle to reveal a false bottom. “Please.”

Sam’s jaw drops when Dean tugs the lid open and props it open- with a _shotgun_ , holy shit- and for a long few moments, he just stares.

He can’t put a name to half of what he sees. Guns, ammo, crosses, a jug of water, canisters of salt and gasoline and at least six different knives. He’s dizzy, grips the edge of the car to keep himself upright.

He doesn’t even realize Dean’s been speaking until he tunes in halfway through what appears to be a tour of the trunk’s contents. “…and the ninja stars are mostly for decoration, so far, but apparently there are some really rare monsters from Asia that only really react to them, so it’s better to be safe than sorry, right?” A shrug, and he taps the side of a jug. Sam notices the rosary hanging around the neck for the first time. “Holy water. Good for a lot of things, but most importantly, hunting demons. Burns them like it’s acid. Or boiling water, I guess. Anyways, it hurts like a bitch, apparently, and that’s what matters. Slows them down and pisses them off.”

“Dean,” Sam interrupts, finally dragging his eyes up from the machete he’s been staring at to look at his brother again. He struggles with his words for a few moments before a random question pops out, one that doesn’t really fully encompass the shock he’s in at the moment. “Is this even legal?”

Dean makes a face. “Some of it is,” he defends himself. “Like, the rocket launcher is military-grade, so not really, but I’ve never had to use it yet, and no one’s searched the trunk so far, so I think it’s okay for now.”

It astounds Sam how completely Dean has managed to miss the point, but he just shakes his head. “Can we just… go back inside?” he asks. Decides he’s going to have to let this go for the moment along with everything else he’s learned. “I kinda want to hit the hay.”

Dean looks almost a little disappointed, but he nods a moment later, regardless. “Yeah, alright,” he agrees. Sounds reluctant. He drops the shotgun he’s been using as a makeshift kickstand back into the trunk and closes everything up, locking it tight. “Party pooper. This stuff is awesome, don’t even lie.”

Maybe in an action movie, Sam thinks. Maybe in fantasy. Seeing it in his brother’s trunk just makes him feel ill. Makes everything seem infinitely more real than he’s believed it to be up until this point. Dean’s crazy, and he’s fully committed himself to the delusions. Sam wonders distantly, as he follows Dean back inside, how many laws Dean’s broken since they last saw each other.

“I’m gonna grab a shower,” Dean says as he heads towards the bathroom. He’s already tugging his shirt up over his head, doesn’t seem bothered by whether or not Sam’s watching. “You wanna go after me? I’ll try not to use all the hot water, promise.”

As much as Sam wants a shower, he doesn’t respond to that. Watches Dean shrug before closing the bathroom door behind him. He moves to sit down slowly on the end of his bed, takes a shaky breath. Tries to gather himself.

He briefly considers just running away. It would be easy, he thinks, to sneak out while Dean’s sleeping or in the shower or otherwise leaves him alone. It’s not like he’s living under lock and key, after all. Sam knows he has money, and finding a bus or someone who’d let him hitch-hike shouldn’t be hard.

But there’s still something that’s stopping him. Maybe it’s some kind of familial loyalty. Maybe it’s just guilt, knowing how bad things have gotten for Dean during their time apart. Sam isn’t sure, but he knows that he won’t be able to walk away from his brother. Not right now. Not until the weekend’s over, at least, and he can catch a plane north and go back to his normal life. His safe life. The one without hallucinations and rocket launchers under false bottoms. The one where his brother’s still a distant memory, and where his father might as well not exist.

Two more days, Sam thinks. Two more days, and he can pretend this was all some horrible, convoluted nightmare.

The night passes without event. It’s quiet, but not especially uncomfortable, and Sam manages to get himself to sleep after texting Jessica for a few minutes. He tries his best to ignore the looks Dean gives him throughout, despite the fact that the attention feels like a physical force.

The next morning is almost lazy. Dean claims that they’re done most of the footwork and just need to figure out where they’re headed before they can finish up the job. It doesn’t even take a lot of digging; Constance Welch lived at the end of Centennial Highway, and according to locals, it’s impossible to miss, if only for its decrepit state. There are even a few claims of people seeing a pale woman in the windows when they drive by, but there’s no real evidence or explanation to go along with it.

Sam wants to get this over with as soon as possible, but Dean continues to insist that they have to wait until nightfall. 

“It’s just easier that way,” he promises. They’re back at the motel now after their recon, and Dean’s settled himself on the bed with an assortment of guns. He’s trying to teach Sam how to clean them, but Sam’s firmly ignoring him. “People don’t ask questions if they’re not around, you know?”

Sam has a sneaking suspicion that there’s just something about the night that makes it easier to commit crime- makes everything less real, almost- but he keeps that to himself.

“Can you grab me the rag in the bottom of my bag?” Sam glances up when he realizes he’s being spoken to, meets Dean’s eyes. His brother looks oddly calm, content. Maybe cleaning guns is soothing for him the way doodling is for other people. “Should just be an old cloth. Thanks.”

Sam shrugs, stands up. Heads over to Dean’s duffle where it’s resting against the wall. He crouches down to look through the bag, digging past clothes until his fingertips meet something cool and smooth. He frowns, wraps his fingers around it and pulls it out.

It’s a cellphone. It isn’t the one Dean’s been using, as far as Sam can tell, and his frown deepens when he realizes it’s turned off. Glances over his shoulder and sees that Dean’s still distracted. Looks back to the phone and hesitates.

There’s no reason for Dean to keep two phones, right? And there aren’t any secrets between them, he’s sure. This shouldn’t be a big deal.

It doesn’t make his hands shake any less as he flips it open and turns it on.

The first thing that happens when the phone powers up is the message indicator going off. One, then two, then five voicemail messages piling up immediately, and Sam raises his eyebrows. Sneaks another peek at Dean before he clicks to listen to them.

The first message is from someone unfamiliar- it’s a man’s voice, and he just identifies himself as “Caleb”- but he uses the name “John” more than once.

Sam frowns. Starts the next message.

He gets through four of them, two from Caleb, one from someone named Jim, and one from someone named Bobby. All of them are asking for someone named John, and Sam isn’t thinking about the way his heart’s trying to beat its way out of his chest. He isn’t.

He’s just about to turn the phone off again, shove it back in Dean’s bag and forget he ever saw it, right up until the next message starts. It’s his own voice, phone-distorted and distant and wrong in that way recordings always are, and Sam feels his blood run cold.

_“Straight to voicemail. Maybe it’s dead.”_

“Sam?” Dean’s voice just sounds mildly interested. “You taking the time to sniff my socks or something, man?”

Sam can’t even process the playful jab. Stands up slowly as the message times out and a robotic voice asks for his input. Can’t even understand the words anymore.

“What the hell is this?” he asks, voice soft as he slowly turns to face his brother. The phone’s in his hand, fingers curled loosely around it, messages still playing through on the speaker, tinny with distance. 

Dean frowns, opens his mouth- sees the phone and stops dead. He goes a little pale. Swallows hard. 

Sam’s jaw tightens, and so does his grip on the phone. “Why do you have Dad’s phone, Dean?”

There’s several more seconds of silence, and Dean doesn’t look him in the eye. Can’t seem to settle for looking at anything in particular. Fidgets in place. Sam can’t remember ever seeing his brother look so blatantly uncomfortable, like he wishes he could vanish into thin air. 

But then there’s a moment, Dean visibly steeling himself, squaring his shoulders, taking a deep breath. “We have a hunt to finish,” he says stiffly. Turns away from Sam and puts his gun back together with a slightly alarming ease. “That bitch could still be hurting people, and we’re going to stop her before she gets the chance.”

Sam blinks once. Twice. Tries to comprehend the fact that Dean is blatantly ignoring his question. The seriousness of the situation at hand. “Dean,” he says, tries to sound calm. “Why the fuck is Dad’s phone in your bag? I thought you said he was busy? That it was why he wasn’t picking up?”

Dean doesn’t so much as look in his direction. “We’re already behind schedule.”

Sam refrains from pointing out that Dean had been the one to insist they wait for nightfall to begin with. “Where’s Dad?”

“C’mon, let’s go.” Dean doesn’t look up as he tucks his gun into his jeans, then turns around and walks right past Sam. “We’ve got a ghost to kill.”

He’s nearly fuming, watching his brother so plainly ignore his demands. It’s infuriating, and Sam doesn’t know how to handle it. He’d been ready for yelling, a fight, something. Not avoidance. Not blatant disregard.

He follows after Dean for lack of another option. Makes it to the car and gets his hand on the door before he’s stopped short, eyes zeroing in on the thing like the first night he’d seen it.

It’s blurry in his mind. The license plate is different. The man in the driver’s side is grim, and older than Dean. Knuckles white as he clutches the wheel.

A wide back seat, and a warm, familiar shoulder to lean his head on.

“This was Dad’s car.” Sam can’t breathe. Isn’t sure how he gets the words out to begin with. “This was his. When we were kids, this was- this was the car he drove.” He can’t believe he missed it the first time. Knows that this car was as much a part of those years as Dean was. “You’ve got his phone, and- and you’ve got his car.” He’s shaking now, reaches out to brace himself against the frame as his mind races, tries to figure out what’s going on. Why everything’s suddenly become impossibly more complicated than it’d been moments ago. “Dean, what the hell?”

All he hears in response is the driver’s side door being pulled open. “You ready to go?”

There’s a long moment where Sam thinks that he must be dreaming. Where he’s sure that this isn’t real, that he hasn’t just landed in the middle of some kind of horror story. But eventually, he manages to get his body to respond. With slow, numbed movements, he opens his door. Slides into the passenger’s seat.

Feels his life falling apart around him as their doors close together.

He can’t believe he hadn’t noticed it before, now that the engine starts up again. It’s familiar, the low purr he can feel all around him, tied irrevocably to the memories he has of his father. It’s a constant from those years after their mother died, before things became stable again, and Sam’s chest feels tight.

“We’ve just gotta finish this job,” Dean says. His voice is soft, but Sam startles, anyway. Isn’t sure how much he can trust his brother anymore. “To help Dad. He needs our help, Sammy.”

The childhood nickname doesn’t help with Sam’s pain any, and he sinks lower in his seat. Squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to cry, tries not to think about what could’ve happened if he’d just refused to tag along in the first place.

“I want to go home.” 

He barely whispers it, but he can hear the hitch in Dean’s breath. The creaking of leather as his hands tighten around the wheel.

Neither of them say anything for a long while after that.

The house, Sam thinks, is exactly as everyone in town had described it. Greying walls, rotting wood, a saggy roof; he’s surprised it’s still standing at all. It definitely fits the horror movie cliché, and the fact that it’s just now getting dark doesn’t help at all.

Dean’s still silent as he pulls up in front of the house. Parks the car and just stays where he is for a long moment without so much as looking in Sam’s direction.

Eventually, he clears his throat. Speaks quietly. “You can stay here if you want.”

With that, he slides out of the car, and Sam is left with a choice. 

There’s nothing in the house. Of that much, he’s sure. There’s definitely not any ghost, no ‘Woman in White’ who’s secretly terrorizing unfaithful men on this particular stretch of road. Dean’s delusional, and maybe he’ll realize it once he wanders into the empty house that’s as likely to fall in on top of him as anything else.

But at the same time, Sam’s got a bad feeling in his gut, something that has him shifting around and throwing a couple of anxious glances over his shoulder.

What if Dean gets hurt? What if the house _does_ collapse, or something equally hazardous? What if there’s a wild animal inside? Sam might be a dog person, but he’s not keen on seeing his brother get mauled by anything waiting on the other side of the front door.

It’s a shaky train of logic, but it’s enough to get him up and moving. Opens the door, only hesitates a moment before circling around to the back where Dean’s got the trunk popped open.

His brother glances up, and there’s a sort of surprised relief on his face. Sam tries not to be let it get to him, just how much Dean seems to be relying on him now.

“Hey,” Dean says, sounds a little tentative. “So… you want to come with me?”

Sam sighs, steps forward. Pointedly avoids looking too close at the contents of the trunk. “Just… tell me what I need to do, I guess.”

Dean smiles a little bit and nods. Next thing Sam knows, there’s a lighter, a can of accelerant, and a small can of salt being pressed into his hands.

“Constance Welch was cremated,” Dean says seriously, sounds like he’s getting down to business now. Like he’s done this enough times now that it’s just routine. “Which means she doesn’t have any remains to be burned. So we’ve got to find whatever it is that’s tying her to the mortal realm, and light it up. The salt is for purification.”

Sam’s a little dizzy with the briefing. Tries not to gag as he thinks about the ‘burning remains’ bit. Has Dean been doing that kind of thing on a regular basis over the past couple years? “So I just… pour salt on- whatever it is, then light it on fire?”

“Pretty much.” Dean nods. “But it might not be that easy, either. A lot of spirits- especially the violent ones- tend to fight back when you try to get rid of them.” He picks up a shotgun, then, brings it up and squints down the length of the barrel. “So that’s gonna be my job.”

“Your job?” Sam repeats, confused and more than a little concerned. “You- why do you need that?”

“To shoot the ghost.” 

Sam’s face must show his skepticism, because Dean explains after a moment. “See these?” He slides the gun open, tugs out one of the shells. It doesn’t look any different than it should to Sam, but he’s used to seeing them on TV, not right in front of him. “Rock salt. It doesn’t kill ‘em, but it makes them vanish for a minute or two. Gives us some extra time to work.”

He goes for a crowbar next, tests it weight. “Iron works the same way.”

“Dean,” Sam finally manages to croak out. “What- what is all this? There’s not going to be a ghost there. We don’t need to defend ourselves.”

Dean apparently decides that the comment doesn’t warrant a response. “Ready to go?” He pockets the Walkman- EMF meter, whatever- and shuts the trunk. Turns to look at Sam. “Sooner we finish this, sooner we can go find a nice, soft bed to relax in.”

The wording is off, but Sam can’t even bring himself to correct it. Two beds, he thinks. They need two beds. “Fine,” he says instead, voice small. “Just… lead the way, I guess.”

Dean doesn’t need any further prompting, and he turns towards the house. Cocks his gun. “Let’s go, then.”

They move into the house together, Sam following in his brother’s footsteps and trying to stay as quiet as possible. Ghost or no ghost, the places is creepy as hell, and he feels like one misplaced step could send him right through the floorboards to whatever’s waiting underneath.

The door opens with a loud creaking noise, but Dean doesn’t seem bothered. He’s got the EMF meter out a moment later, moving around the room quietly as he follows the little beeps. 

Sam lets himself separate a little bit, but doesn’t let Dean out of his line of sight. He moves around the house, frowns at the décor. It doesn’t look like someone moved out; it looks like they left in a rush and didn’t bother packing. There are dishes in the sink, photos on the walls. Cracked frames with old paintings. He fingers a bit of peeling wallpaper while he examines one photo in particular, a woman with two young children. He wonders if it’s actually Constance Welch, as promised.

He’s distracted a moment later by a sound from above, a creak somewhere near the top of a set of stairs. Sam’s immediately on high alert, stiffens and glances towards his brother. 

Dean looks like a spooked cat, eyes a little wide and fixed on the stairs. “Sammy, get over here,” he whispers urgently. Gestures for Sam to join him. “I’ll deal with her, you find the remains and burn them, okay?”

Sam obeys blindly. Can’t really imagine thinking for himself right that second. Wonders in passing if maybe his brother isn’t so crazy after all.

He takes Dean’s spot and accepts the EMF meter without question. He’s not sure exactly what to look for, but most of his attention is on his brother, anyways, as Dean moves towards the stairs, crowbar in hand, light on his feet like he’s practiced for this.

Sam tries to focus on his task, starts waving the thing around at random. The beeps get louder as he approaches the front of the house, seem to get even more intense around the window. He wonders if it’s got anything to do with the old power lines he can see outside. Decides it doesn’t matter as he grabs something in the same area- the photo he was looking at earlier of the woman and her children.

He’s about to get the lighter open when he hears the stairs creak violently followed by a pained yelp. It’s too high in pitch to be his brother, but Sam looks anyways. Feels a little lightheaded at what he sees.

Dean’s got the crowbar half-raised, apparently ready for another swing. Collapsed on the stairs in front of him is a woman, dark hair and pale skin, dirty, a crazed look in her eyes. One hand is clutching some kind of metal pipe, the other curled to hold her own shoulder. It’s not hard to put the pieces together.

“Dean!” He can’t help the volume of his voice. The way it trembles. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Dean doesn’t even look over as he backs up, putting some space between the woman and himself. “Sam, find the thing and burn it,” he growls. “I’ve got her.”

Sam wants to scream. Wants to tell his brother that she isn’t a ghost; she’s just a person. A homeless person, maybe, a person with some mental dysfunctions, but still a person. But Dean’s the one who’s armed right now, so with shaky hands, he opens the salt. Manages to sprinkle some onto the photo before he’s fumbling with the lighter.

The heavy sound of metal hitting flesh and bone. Another scream. Sam flinches violently, hands shaking while he tries to finish his job. 

The old photo lights easily, and Sam thinks he might cry with relief when it starts crumbling in his hands. Turns to look at Dean, to tell him he’s finished, they can go, this is over-

The woman’s rushing at him, bar raised high. Sam has a moment to wonder how she got past Dean, to wonder if she’ll be able to kill him with one swing of her pipe. To wonder what Jessica is going to think about his disappearance.

That’s as far as he gets before there’s a sharp crack, sounds like thunder in the enclosed space, and the woman’s face goes slack before she stumbles. Hits the ground.

Sam feels like he should be more surprised about the gun in his brother’s hands. Mostly, all he can make himself focus on is the fact that ghosts don’t bleed out on the floor while their supposed remains burn into nothing.

Dean just killed a woman. Dean just killed a woman to protect him. Dean just killed a woman, and when Sam finally looks up, his brother’s right in front of him, breathing out a “thank God, Sammy,” and then he leans in and their lips are pressed together and Sam doesn’t really think about anything at all for a few long, drawn-out seconds.

Nothing feels real except for the feeling of his brother’s lips moving against his, desperate. Hungry. Familiar.

That thought is enough to jolt Sam out of whatever stupor he’s managed to work himself into, and he jerks backwards. Shoves Dean off of him, pants hard as he tries to catch his breath, wipes his mouth off on the back of his hand. Can’t even comprehend the lingering taste on his lips, the one he knows, somehow, is Dean.

Sam opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again. “Dean- I- what the _fuck?_ ”

There’s something hurt in Dean’s expression, something vulnerable and young and scared- but as soon as Sam realizes that he’s done something wrong, it’s gone, walls going up, Dean’s face evening out. Shutting down.

“We need to finish up here,” he says instead of acknowledging the question. The kiss. Turns to glance at the body at his feet dispassionately. “You still got that lighter fluid?”

Numb, Sam holds out the canister. Watches as his brother starts sprinkling it over the woman’s body. Still bleeding. Probably still warm. Hell, she might even still be _alive._ Dean doesn’t seem to care, though, and reaches for the lighter a moment later. Flicks it open and produces a small flame with a quick movement of his thumb.

“Dean- wait.” Sam’s not sure how he’s managed to work up the ambition to speak, but the words are out there and now Dean’s looking at him, expectant. He swallows hard. Tries to continue past the tight feeling in his chest. “She- she’s hurt.”

A long moment of Dean meeting his gaze evenly before he goes back to what he’s doing. Crouches down to press the lighter in close enough to catch on her clothes.

The woman moves slightly. Lets out a pained groan as she curls in on herself.

Dean’s face is hard when he straightens up. The flames are spreading, and he’s turning away. “Let’s go. We don’t want to be here if the cops show up.” 

He pauses a moment when the woman makes another sound. Turns back towards her only to give her a sharp kick in the head. Sam flinches hard like it’d been targeted at him. She doesn’t make any more noises after that.

“Sam.” It’s not a request, and it’s so icy that Sam doesn’t hesitate, stumbles over himself in his hurry to follow his brother out the front door, down rotting porch steps.

He tries not to hear the crackling flames, but the rapidly-spreading smell of smoke is impossible to ignore. He tries to convince himself he’s imagining the one that smells like Jessica’s hair curler. Like his aunt’s pot roast.

Sam barely makes it to the car. His stomach is turning, and if it weren’t for Dean’s wordless growl, he wouldn’t have gotten in at all.

His brother’s a psychopath. He’s a murderer, a serial killer or- or something. 

The engine starts, and they peel out of the driveway. The motion of the car only worsens Sam’s condition, and they hardly make it a hundred yards before Sam can’t take it.

“Stop the car,” he manages to plead. “Dean, please, stop the fucking car.”

Dean must see the look on his face, because they pull over a moment later. The car isn’t even fully stopped by the time Sam’s opening his door, stumbling to the shoulder of the road and falling to his knees. Hunches in on himself as he throws up whatever he’d managed to eat earlier. 

The acid is bitter on his tongue, and even once his stomach’s completely emptied itself, he can’t stop the dry heaves. Curls his fingers tight in dead grass for some kind of leverage. The tears on his cheeks are a surprise, but he can’t even bring himself to wonder what’s caused them. 

He can never go home. Not after this. Not knowing that Dean’s out on his own, free to do- whatever the fuck he thinks he’s doing.

Sam flinches violently when a hand settles on the back of his neck, lets out a little whimper. Logically, he knows it’s Dean, but that doesn’t make it any better.

“Hey, it’s okay.” The coldness is gone from Dean’s voice, and he sounds like Sam remembers him. Gentle, soothing. Like the big brother he grew up with. “I’ve got you. Just let it out, kiddo.”

Dean doesn’t even realize how broken he is, and it just makes Sam sob harder.

His head aches with all the crying he’s done by the time Dean helps him back to the car. His mouth tastes bitter, his stomach is empty, and he feels like his life has completely fallen apart around him.

It doesn’t occur to Sam that things have only just begun.

The ride back to the motel is quiet. Sam stays in the car while Dean goes inside to check them out and grab the rest of their things. “We need to get out of town,” he’d explained softly. “The police don’t understand what we do, and they’ll try to pin whatever they can on us.”

Sam thinks it’s a pretty convoluted way of saying that they’re on the run from the law, but he keeps that to himself.

While Dean’s in the motel, Sam pulls his phone out of his pocket with shaky hands. He opens up the conversation he’d had with Jessica earlier, almost starts crying again. Can’t believe what he’s about to do. What he needs to do, if only to put his own mind at rest.

He clicks the call button. Doesn’t bother wondering how late it is. He knows she’ll answer.

It takes a few rings, but Jessica’s voice comes through the phone a moment later. Sounds sleepy and concerned. “Sam? What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

“Jess.” It’s a breath of relief. He wants to take his time, wants to be able to stretch this out as long as possible. Knows it isn’t a good idea with Dean so nearby. “I- I’m not coming back.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Sam can almost hear the frown in her voice. “What… what are you talking about? You mean because of New York?”

“No.” Sam swallows hard. Steels himself. Saying it out loud makes it real. “Because of my brother. I- he needs help, Jess.”

“Help?” She sounds worried and a little suspicious. “What kind of help? You don’t mean-” She lowers her voice like she’s worried about being overheard. “Like… mental? What’s wrong, Sam?”

Sam almost laughs. Remembers what Jessica had said before they left, about how Dean didn’t seem quite right. God, how blind had he been? “He’s a psychopath,” he whispers. Dean may be far enough away for now, but he can’t help his sense of paranoia. “God, Jess, I- I just watched him kill a woman in cold blood. Fuck, I just…” It’s starting to come back now, the panic, and he takes a few deep breaths. “He needs help, Jess. I need to help him.”

“No, you need to call the police!” Jessica’s voice is a little bit shaky. “Jesus, Sam, what do you mean he killed someone? That’s not something you should… you could be in danger being with him! Sam, what if he hurts you?” There’s legitimate fear, now, and Sam finds himself wanting to gather her up in his arms. Reassure her that everything’s going to be okay. “What if he does something, Sam? Hurts someone else? You can’t help him by yourself, he needs a professional. A prison sentence. _Something._ ”

“He’s my brother.” It comes out a little wrong; Sam’s thinking about the kiss again, the phantom sensation of lips against his, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Can’t think about it and talk to his girlfriend and not feel guilty. “He’s family, Jess.”

“You didn’t even tell me he _existed_.” Sam feels a little guilty about that, though he can’t really decide where it comes from. “But suddenly you’re dropping your life because he- what? Can’t get professional help?” She pauses, takes a deep breath. “I just- this is your whole future, Sam. And he needs help, just… not from you.”

“He’s family.” It’s the only thing Sam can think about right now, the mantra circling around in his head that’s tying him to this decision. He doesn’t want to think about what’ll happen if he lets go of it. “I can’t let him out by himself. He- he’ll get hurt, or he’ll get lost, or…” Or he’ll hurt someone again, he wanted to say. Or he’ll be alone. Lonely.

Sam doesn’t want to think about why the idea of Dean being lonely hurts him so bad.

“He needs me.”

“I need you,” Jessica counters. “You need to be safe. God, Sam, just- just drive him to the police station and go. You can’t help him.”

“I’m not sending him there.” Sam shivers as he thinks about what would happen to his brother. Locked away for life, probably, on murder charges if not for whatever’s going on in his fucked up head. “I just- I can help him, Jess. He needs me here, okay?”

She starts to speak again, but Sam cuts her off. “I’m sorry. I just- I don’t want to do this. Not to us.” Not to himself, either. Neither of them deserve this. “But I just- I’m not coming back, Jess. And I don’t think… you should wait for me.”

There’s a long pause, and all Sam can hear is Jessica’s breathing. The little hitches in it that tell him she’s trying not to cry. “You- you mean. We’re not…”

“We can’t be together anymore.” Sam closes his eyes tight. Tries not to think about soft lips against his own or the smell of gun oil on his brother’s skin. “I’m so sorry, Jess. I don’t want to drag you into this with me. You deserve better.”

“So do you,” Jessica whispers. “Sam, please, just- don’t do this. Come back. Go to New York. Let someone help Dean who knows what they’re doing.”

“They’ll just lock him away.” Sam takes a shaky breath. “I have to go. I don’t know when he’ll be back. Just… I love you. And I’m sorry.”

A sniffle, and a rustle of fabric. Sam imagines her rubbing her eyes. “I love you, too,” she says softly. “Just- be safe, Sam. Please.”

“I will.” Sam can’t stand to say goodbye, so that’s when he ends the call. Hates the way the button under his finger feels like it’s ended so much more than his relationship with his girlfriend. 

Dean appears moments later, dumps the bags in the trunk- apparently it’s no longer off-limits- before returning to the driver’s side. He starts up the car without a word, glances over. Frowns. Sam realizes he must look like a mess after the crying and everything else that’s happened today. Reaches up to scrub at his eyes.

“Just drive,” he mumbles, leaning into his door with his eyes fixed outside the window. He can’t deal with talking to his brother right now, not after breaking things off with Jessica. Not after everything that’s happened today.

The engine purrs to life underneath him, and they’ve moving a moment later. Sam might not have been a big fan of Jericho’s gloomy atmosphere, but leaving it behind feels like the final nail in the coffin. 

He doesn’t think he’ll be going back to “normal” ever again. It’s just too damn far in the rear view mirror.

Dean doesn’t say anything for a long while. They’re in the middle of nowhere, some empty stretch of highway approaching midnight. It’s dark and silent, and Sam can’t stand it.

In his efforts not to think about Jessica or any of the other things he’s just given up in favour of trying to get his brother some help, his thoughts have drifted back towards everything that’s happened throughout the day. The “hunt.” Dad’s phone, his car.

The kiss.

Sam’s voice is scratchy from crying and disuse, but he speaks anyways. Can’t keep it to himself any longer. “Why did you kiss me?”

Silence. Dean doesn’t so much as flinch, and when Sam looks over at him, he’s still watching the road. Acts like he didn’t hear the question at all. There aren’t even enough streetlights to illuminate his expression. Sam decides to try again.

“Dean. You can’t just- ignore me forever.”

More silence, and Sam gets a little frustrated.

“Alright, what about the phone, then? Dad’s phone.” He pauses a moment. No reaction. “The car? Why do you have it, Dean? What happened to Dad?”

Sam wonders if he imagines the way Dean’s fingers tighten slightly around the steering wheel, and decides to keep pushing. 

“Did he get hurt, Dean? On- on a hunt? Did he get in trouble?” A long pause. He tries once more, plays his trump card. “Is he dead?”

Sam isn’t ready for the way Dean throws the wheel to the side, twisting the car and slamming hard on the breaks. He’s nearly thrown forward, barely manages to catch himself against the dashboard when they wind up halfway on the shoulder of the road.

“ _Fuck_ , what the-” 

But Dean’s already moving, getting out of the car. Slams the door behind him, and Sam winces. Takes the hint and carefully follows.

Dean’s pacing like a caged animal when Sam steps out of the car. Approaches him cautiously, because he looks like he’s ready to hit someone, and Sam’s not exactly keen on the idea of his brother breaking his nose. “Dean?”

“You want to know what happened to Dad?” Dean turns to face him suddenly, steps up close and forces Sam to back away, running into the car and nearly falling. “You really want to know what happened, Sam?”

Sam’s more than a little shocked, but he manages a tiny nod. It’s morbid curiosity, if nothing else, but he needs to know.

Dean barely whispers his response, leaning in close. “He’s dead. Got himself shot in the head, Sammy. You want to know how?” He doesn’t wait for a response this time. Steps back, straightens up a little and looks Sam dead in the eyes. Like a challenge. “He was gonna kill me, you know. So I just did what he taught me to do. I killed him first.”

He sounds almost a little proud of himself, and Sam thinks that if his stomach weren’t already empty, he’d have been sick all over again. But then he actually processes the whole sentence and blinks. Wonders how deep this rabbit hole goes, and tries to figure out how he’s supposed to respond to that. “He… he was trying to kill you?”

Sam’s hesitance seems to make Dean deflate a little, some of the pride seeping out of his shoulders. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “He just- he just started saying stuff, and doin’ stuff. To me, I mean. And he said it was training for a while, but it got… bad.”

Sam frowns. After watching Dean shoot a woman in the back without remorse, he’s not sure he wants to know what his brother qualifies as “bad.” But all the same… “What happened?”

Dean shrugs. Looks away and shifts a little in place like he’s uncomfortable. “We were sparring,” he says softly. “And- I don’t know. He beat me up pretty bad. Said he’d keep going if I didn’t defend myself. I just got to the gun before he did.” He bites his lip, fidgets. “And then I just… ran. Grabbed everything and went. Didn’t even burn the body.” He looks a little upset about that for reasons Sam can’t identify. 

Sam shakes his head slowly. Tries to slog through that dump of information. “You… killed him,” he says softly. “You killed Dad, because he was going to kill you.” 

It occurs to Sam that he knows next to nothing about what’s been going on with his brother for the past two years. No idea about the things his Dean’s been through or the state their dad was in for that duration. For all he knows, Dean had no other choice but to protect himself like he had. Maybe it’s why he’s so messed up to begin with.

Instead of driving himself crazy wondering about that, Sam moves onto something else. The other thing that’s been weighing on his mind ever since it happened. 

“Why did you kiss me?” 

Dean’s quiet for a moment. Doesn’t look at him. “Because I was scared,” he says eventually. “That you would get hurt. And I was happy that you didn’t.”

“But we’re… we’re brothers, Dean,” Sam replies slowly, like he’s not sure if he’s correct. With everything in the world going as crazy as it seems to be, he wouldn’t be surprised if incest was no longer taboo. “Brothers don’t kiss each other, Dean. Not when they’re as old as we are.”

Dean deflates a little bit, shoulders slumping. “No,” he murmurs. “They don’t.” He pauses for a long moment, looks like he’s hesitating. “You really don’t remember any of it, do you?”

The question seems completely out of left field, and it sets Sam on edge. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dean smiles at that, but it looks sad. “You never thought it was weird? I didn’t really notice until I started visiting at school, but stuff was disappearing. Just a little bit at a time, but… you didn’t even recognize Dad’s car for a couple days of driving around in it.”

Sam frowns. Nods slowly. “Yeah, so?” He’s never let himself think about it too hard. “If I forgot about it, it probably didn’t really matter in the first place, right?”

For a moment, Sam wonders if Dean’s in some kind of physical pain. He looks like he’s been stricken, like he can’t even breathe. 

“Dean?” he tries, takes a half-step forward, tentative. “What is it?”

Dean looks like he’s hesitating. Doesn’t respond for a long few seconds. “We used to have something, you know.”

That brings Sam up short. It takes him a moment to collect his thoughts. “What?”

A sigh. Dean looks away again, wanders off towards the car. “Back when it was just you and Dad and me? Dad wasn’t really around very often.” He shrugs. Gets quiet. “We didn’t have anyone but each other, Sammy.”

The picture is starting to come together slowly, but Sam doesn’t want to see it. “Yeah, so? We were close. I remember that much.”

“Apparently not.” Dean laughs, then, a bitter sound. “You’ve got no idea how close we were, do you?”

Sam isn’t sure when his breathing sped up, but it’s a little frantic now as he steps closer to his brother. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Sharing a bed, spending all our time together…” Dean’s smile is tiny, but there. “We only had each other, little brother. And we loved each other a lot. Might’ve gone a little farther than siblings are generally supposed to.”

Sam can’t take it anymore. Doesn’t experience the fractions of seconds between standing on his own and pinning Dean to the car, one hand fisted in the collar of his shirt. “Spit it out,” he whispered. “What were we?”

“Everything,” Dean says softly. Simply. Like it somehow tells the whole story. “We were everything. You and me against the world, remember?”

And in that moment, Sam does. 

There are flashes, bits and pieces of images that he doesn’t know the true nature of. Stolen kisses and shared beds and legs tangled under the sheets. Fireworks and empty fields, hands in hair and on hips and sliding over skin, and-

And he can’t hold onto any of it. The impression stays with him, but the memories are slippery, and Sam wants to cry with frustration as his fingers loosen in Dean’s shirt.

“No,” he nearly whimpers. “I- I can’t.”

Dean reaches up. Brushes his fingers through Sam’s hair. Sam tilts his head into it on pure instinct, lets his eyes flutter shut. “That’s okay,” he says gently. “It’s okay, Sammy. We’re gonna sort it all out, okay?”

Sam slowly releases his brother the rest of the way. Takes a step back and turns away, moves towards the passenger’s door. Scrubs a hand over his face. This isn’t something he feels like he can deal with right now.

“Can we just… find somewhere to stay tonight?” he asks quietly. “I’m tired.”

Instead of responding, Dean just slides into the driver’s seat and starts the car. They’re back on the road within a minute, and Sam’s left staring out the window with more questions than he’d had when they’d pulled over in the first place.

If nothing else, maybe spending more time with Dean will help to answer some of them.

They drive for another hour or two before coming across a town to spend the night. The motel is no different from the last one, and the setup of their room is nearly identical: two queens, a desk, a chair, a TV. It’s not exactly five stars, but Sam’s pretty sure all he needs is the mattress.

A shower comes first, though, but Dean slips in before him. Some comment about being older, and he’s gone, promises to be quick. Sam can’t even make himself feel annoyed right now; he’s just too goddamn exhausted. Hours in the car, the mess of a “hunt,” the emotionally draining conversation afterwards. He’s still trying to work through everything Dean had told him- that their dad’s dead, that they used to be… together, or something, all of it. It’s too much for one night, and he’s praying that it’ll sort itself out while he sleeps.

Dean hadn’t been lying about the short shower, and he’s out within a couple minutes, towel around his waist. Sam doesn’t even try to hide his stare; now that he knows where the scars come from, he can’t stop looking at them. Wondering if they’d all been inflicted by their father. Exactly how much has he forgotten about their childhood, anyways?

If Dean notices the staring, he doesn’t say anything. Not this time. He moves out of Sam’s path on his way into the bathroom and starts to get dressed before Sam closes the door between them.

Sam spends more time in the shower than he strictly needs to. He wants the time to try to unwind, hopes the hot water can ease the tension in his muscles, if absolutely nothing else. 

He steps out feeling physically more relaxed, but no more at ease mentally. He’s not even sure he’ll be able to sleep at this point, and can’t entirely decide how he feels about that.

When he steps back into the room, already dressed in the boxers and sweats he brought with him, Dean’s in bed. He’s curled on his side, facing the bathroom door, and his eyes are closed, but it’s obvious he’s not asleep.

Regardless, there’s something about the position that has him looking oddly vulnerable. Childlike. It occurs to Sam that his brother didn’t really get a childhood after the accident. By the time they were dropped off with their aunt and uncle, he was already enough of an adult for the both of them. Sam can’t believe how much he tends to forget that.

It makes seeing Dean like this all the more unexpected. Absurdly, he finds himself walking closer, bare feet quiet against carpeted floor. He doesn’t think it through, really. Not when he circles around to the other side of the bed, and certainly not when he slides in beside Dean, slow and careful.

Dean doesn’t say anything, but he shuffles around until he’s fitted himself back against Sam’s chest. Sam can feel his brother’s heartbeat through his back, and moves to wrap his arms tight around Dean. It feels natural, somehow. Feels right.

“Used to share a bed,” Dean says quietly. Settles down in his arms like they were made for him. “When we were kids. With Dad, and then for a while after. It was always more comfortable like that, I guess.” He sighs, presses a little bit closer. “Except you used to always be the little spoon.”

Sam can picture it now, though he’s not really sure whether he’s fabricating the image or remembering it. Dean curled up against his back, holding him close. Keeping him safe. Whispering soothing nonsense into his hair. It’s too easy to replicate the next move, leaning in to brush his lips just under Dean’s ear. It’s barely there, so it doesn’t count, right?

Dean shivers, regardless. Doesn’t stop talking. “You loved it when I touched you. Such a needy kid, you know? Guess you were affection-starved or something, but I think mostly you just liked being the center of attention.”

Sam thinks that sort of thing sounds like an annoyance, but from Dean, it just sounds fond. He slides a hand down, strokes his way between Dean’s chest and stomach. It’s bare; neither of them have opted for a shirt tonight, and Sam can’t help but be thankful for the decision. It’s certainly paying off now. 

“It was just that for a while.” Dean sighs again. Settles under the affection. “Until we got a little older, I guess.”

This should feel wrong, Sam’s sure. He shouldn’t be sneaking his hand lower as he nibbles at Dean’s jaw. He certainly shouldn’t be fingering the waistband on the boxers Dean’s got on. This is ten kinds of not right, not limited to the incest thing. With the mental state Dean’s in, there’s no way he should be able to consent to this kind of thing. Sam’s taking advantage of Dean’s delusions, and he hates himself a little bit for it.

There’s no way they were together in any capacity. Their dad would’ve noticed, or at least their aunt and uncle. There’s no way they’d have just slipped under the radar with something like that.

“But it kind of escalated after that.” Sam can hear the smile in Dean’s voice even as he rolls his brother over. Gently moves him to his hands and knees. Dean offers no resistance, goes easily and braces himself on his forearms. Looks comfortable in the position, which is the last thing Sam wants to think about right now. “Became more. There were the kisses, first.”

Sam’s already passed that stage, but he does it again for good measure. Presses a couple gentle kisses to the back of Dean’s neck as if it’ll make this okay. Like it’ll fill the gap in his memory with something substantial, something real. Something he can keep.

“But it was more, too.” Dean laughs, soft and breathy. “You started asking me to touch you, Sammy. Wanted me to help when you felt funny and didn’t know what to do about it. Even if I said no, you’d just say you’d go ask Dad, instead.” 

Dean pauses for a long moment there, and it gives Sam time to grip his hips, just for the feel of it. He drops his head to rest between his brother’s shoulder blades, takes a deep breath. Dean smells shower-fresh, soft and warm under his hands.

“But I didn’t want that. So eventually, I’d give in.” Dean sounds almost genuinely regretful. Sam slides a hand down until he can push Dean’s pants down his hips, moving slowly. Takes the time to admire the curve of his ass as he goes. “And you loved it so much. Wanted me to show you how, so you could make me feel good, too.”

All Sam can think about is the image in front of him, reflective of the one that’s being painted by Dean’s words. He wonders how many times they’ve been in this position. How many times it’s been reversed.

“Baby oil’s in my bag.” The guided tour down memory lane pauses, and Sam glances over to the bag indicated. Leans over and finds the bottle as promised. Doesn’t have to ask what it’s for.

“It was the best thing we had, you know?” Dean spreads his legs a little without being told, and Sam starts lubing up his fingers slowly. This isn’t the first time he’s done anal, but it may be the first time with his brother. He doesn’t have the heart to ask Dean when he’s so absorbed in what he’s saying. “We lost Mom, and we didn’t really have Dad, but at least we had each other, right?”

It sounds reasonable enough. Sam slides the tip of his finger around Dean’s entrance, watches the way his brother shivers, clenches slightly. He’s sure he could spend hours here if he had the patience, but he doesn’t. Instead, he starts pushing inside, slow and gentle. His free hand smooths down Dean’s thigh. 

Dean’s monologue doesn’t falter. “So we did what we could for each other. Spent our time together, and- and took care of each other. Like brothers are supposed to do.” It sounds almost like a challenge, and Sam doesn’t know what to say.

So he doesn’t speak. He focuses on his hands, on using his fingers to slowly work Dean open until it’s a simple matter of sitting up a little, lining himself up. He’s been hard for God knows how long, and doesn’t try to question it. Wraps his arms around Dean’s torso before pressing inside.

Dean stops talking for a little while after that, his voice apparently failing him in favour of soft gasps and moans as Sam works his hips in short thrusts, hands tight on Dean’s body. When he manages to get going again, it’s breathier, peppered with little whines and cries of pleasure.

“God, Sammy, the- the first time you wanted more. You asked me how two boys were s’posed to have sex.” A little hitch in breath that sounds almost like a sob. “Just asked me t’show you ‘stead of tryin’ to explain it.” Another quick thrust, and Dean falters, seems to need a moment to gather himself. “But fuck, when you wanted to take me- you were so eager, baby boy. Wanted it so bad.”

For a long, blissful moment, Sam thinks this could be simple. It’s just him and Dean, two bodies working against each other and with each other in the heat of the moment, trying to achieve their climax. Trying to both give and receive pleasure. It doesn’t matter that they’re brothers. It doesn’t matter that Dean’s crazy, and that Sam’s taking advantage of it to act on whatever fucked up feelings are causing this. None of it is important for those few precious seconds. 

But Dean comes as soon as Sam gets a hand on his cock, and Sam isn’t far behind. The spasms around him are too much, and he shudders, presses in close before spilling inside his brother, burying his face in Dean’s shoulder. He knows this can’t go on, can’t last the way it is right now, but he shoves it to the back of his mind, focuses on the scent of sweat and sex and leather and gunpowder. 

They come down slowly, Sam eventually lowering them to lie together, still half-buried inside of Dean. He doesn’t have a problem with it right now, and all that matters is that Dean is sleepy and warm in his arms. He closes his eyes, feels like he’ll drift off any moment now.

Dean’s voice is quiet, but Sam still hears him. “We loved each other.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and he doesn’t need to. Sam doesn’t reply, just moves to find one of Dean’s hands. Tangles their fingers together. 

Maybe there’s something wrong with Dean. Hell, maybe there’s something wrong with everything about their relationship right now. But for the moment, Sam doesn’t care. All that matters is that he’s going to keep his brother safe. He’s going to do everything in his power to make Dean better, no matter what it takes.

No one is ever going to hurt Dean again.

When Sam wakes up, it’s to the feeling of Dean carefully squirming his way out of his arms. Sam frowns, tightens his hold. Doesn’t want his brother to go quite yet.

“Phone call,” Dean murmurs, managing to snake out of his grip, anyways. “Gotta get it.”

Sam realizes that it’s actually the ringing coming from across the room that’d woken him up, and he grumbles before letting Dean go. The previous night hasn’t really hit him yet, and he’s thankful. Maybe it’s just the sleepiness, but he’s more than happy to keep that particular breakdown for later.

Dean makes it across the room, and Sam closes his eyes. Listens to the general greeting before Dean stops dead. Swallows hard.

Sam doesn’t know what’s going on, but he’s quick to scramble out of bed, moves to join his brother. There’s something off about Dean, something that’s too timid, and he moves in close, tries to listen. Can’t make anything out on the other end of the call.

Dean’s quiet, eyes a little wide, and he’s standing rigidly. Not quite at attention, but he’s not far off. “Yes, sir,” he murmurs. “I’ll be there, sir.” 

With that, he hangs up, slowly lowers the phone. Stares at it like it’s going to answer his questions.

“Dean?” Sam prompts gently after he decides his brother won’t speak for himself. “What’s going on?”

Dean doesn’t say a word. He turns around and walks right past Sam, starts digging around for clothes and pulling them on. 

“Dean.” Sam follows him, starts dressing himself if only to prevent the potential of having to chase after his brother in his underwear. “Dean, talk to me. Please.”

Though he doesn’t look up, Dean does respond this time. “I have to go,” he says simply. 

“Then I’m coming with you.” Whether it’s what happened last night or the fact that Dean’s so goddamn spooked by the phone call, there’s no way in hell that he’s about to let his brother go off somewhere alone. Not after giving up so much just to stay by his side.

“You can’t,” Dean nearly snaps, and Sam’s so startled that he drops the jeans he’s trying to put on. “I have to go alone.”

“Not happening.” Maybe Sam’s treating his brother like a kid, but he doesn’t care. Not right now. “I’ll come with you. Hell, I’ll stay in the car if you want. But I’m not staying here while you run off after some mysterious phone call.”

“It could be dangerous.”

Sam snorts. “You’re not helping your case.”

Dean’s jaw tightens as he straightens up. Looks hard at Sam for several seconds before going back to getting dressed. “You can stay in the car.”

It’s enough, Sam thinks, and possibly as much as he’s going to get, so he nods. Pulls his shoes on when he sees Dean moving to do the same. “Alright.”

He doesn’t bother trying to ask who was calling. He doesn’t question it when Dean hands him the keys. He looks shaky enough that Sam probably would’ve ended up asking for them anyways. “You’re gonna have to tell me where to go,” he notes as they head out to the car together. 

Dean nods stiffly. Slides into the passenger’s side of the car and looks a little out of place as Sam claims the driver’s side. “I will. North on Center Street.”

The directions are simple and given at the last possible moment per turn. Sam wonders why; it’s not like he’s been to this town before, either way, but he’s not about to criticize Dean’s decisions right now. Not when his brother is so obviously in such a state. He fidgeting in place, tugging at his shirt sleeves. Running his fingertips over the scars on his arms. Sam wonders if it’s a nervous habit, or something specifically related to wherever they’re going right now.

When they pull up in front of what appears to be some kind of abandoned cabin, Sam frowns, eyes the lack of vehicle waiting for them. “You supposed to be meeting someone?” 

Dean ignores that. “Stay in the car,” he says softly. “I’ll be back, okay? Just… stay here.”

Without another word, without even time for Sam to say goodbye, he leaves the car. Closes the door behind himself carefully before heading into the building. 

Sam is left to wait, and he’s never been a patient person.

There’s no reasonable person who’d have walked out here. All Sam can think about is the woman who’d been in the house, ready to attack anyone who entered. What if something like that happens again? What if Dean doesn’t have backup? Sam might not be much good at what he does, but two against one is always better odds.

He makes it a total of four minutes before running out of patience. He gets out of the car and pauses. Glances slowly towards the trunk.

It can’t hurt to be prepared, right?

He might not be an expert, but he’s pretty sure the handgun he finds will be effective against most things he might encounter. The flask he grabs on a whim seems to be filled with water- holy water, probably, based on the other contents of the trunk- and the knife is more for security than anything else.

Loaded up and ready to go, he heads for the house. Tries to stay quiet.

When he gets close to the door, he can hear talking inside, just faintly. Both voices- one of them Dean’s- are familiar, but the second one sounds wrong. Tainted. Like it doesn’t really belong to the person who’s using it. 

With that thought, Sam’s opening the door. Before he can even inhale to speak, he stops dead. Tries to process what he’s looking at.

John Winchester is sliding a hand through Dean’s hair, a slight smile on his face, looking for all the world like he’s just been handed everything he’s ever wanted in the world. Dean’s eyes are wide, almost dazed. Star-struck. Sam sees him press in closer, and it makes his heart hurt. Distracts him from the fact that a supposedly dead man is touching his brother for about half of a second.

“What the hell?” he manages, barely a second later.

Dean’s lips part slightly, and his eyes flick over to Sam. Looks surprised, a little caught off-guard. He makes no move to pull away from John, though. “Sam, I… I thought I told you to wait in the car.”

“I thought you killed him.” Sam ignores the question, steps closer to try to get a better look. It’s been more than a decade since he’s seen his father in person, but there’s no mistaking him. Same face, same stubble, same tired eyes. Hell, even the same haircut. “I thought you shot him, Dean. You told me you did.”

“Guess it didn’t stick.” John’s the one who responds, which shouldn’t be a surprise considering the stunned bunny look on Dean’s face. It has Sam worried about his health, but for the moment, he’s mostly focusing on his dad, the gravel of his voice. “Long time, no see, kid.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Sam demands. Refuses to be sucked in by whatever’s got Dean so transfixed. He pulls out the gun, then, because it makes him feel like he’s got some iota of control over this situation. His hands are shaking, and he’s still got the safety on. Doesn’t try to flick it off yet. “Dean, talk to me. Please.”

“Dean doesn’t need to talk to you anymore, Sammy.” John’s voice is almost sickly sweet, and that damn smile is still on his face. It screams _wrong, wrong, wrong_ in Sam’s head, and his hands steady a little bit. “He’s got me. Daddy’s home.”

“Shut up.” Sam takes a deep breath, tries to focus. “Even if- whatever you’re saying… you were dead. You couldn’t have survived that, and- and you were hurting him, anyways.” That thought helps Sam steel himself. “Don’t touch him.”

John’s smile grows a little bit, and he hums, glances at Dean. Brushes a thumb over his cheekbone. “I don’t know, kiddo. I kinda like this one.”

Sam can’t even begin to process everything wrong with what’s going on here. “I said don’t touch him!” He looks at his brother almost desperately. “Dean, please.”

Dean’s starting to look a little confused, now, too. Looks up at John. “Dad?”

There’s a pause where it almost looks like their father’s considering something before he shrugs. Smiles. “Guess it was only a matter of time, huh?”

He blinks once, and when his eyes open again, they’re entirely flooded with black.

Sam doesn’t think. Flips the safety and pulls the trigger.

He fires once, twice. The first shot goes wide, but the second hits John- not John, definitely not John, something else, _Dean isn’t crazy_ \- in the thigh. He doesn’t so much as stagger.

Dean, though- Dean moves. He yanks himself away, eyes a little bit wide as he stumbles towards Sam. “Demon,” he breathes, eyes locked on their father’s body.

The thing- demon, Sam corrects himself- laughs. “I really had you going for a while, didn’t I?”

“Get out of him!” Dean demands, fists curled tight at his sides. “You son of a bitch, get the fuck out of my dad or I’ll-”

“What?” The demon tilts its head, looks amused. “Shoot me?” He glances down at his leg with a look of disinterest. “Sorry, Deano. Been there, tried that. Besides, I’ve kinda come to like this body. Been riding it for…” He pauses, lets his eyes slide back up to Dean. “About a year, now, give or take.”

Sam watches his brother’s jaw drop slightly in his peripherals and it occurs to him that Dean’s been alone with a demon for months on end. He doesn’t think he needs to question the scars anymore.

“And don’t worry, your daddy isn’t in here anymore.” That catches Sam off-guard, and he blinks a couple times. “Remember when you shot me, Dean? Right in the head?” The demon forms a pretend gun with its fingers, presses the tips to its temple with a grin. “Bang. Didn’t hurt me, but it sure as hell hurt Johnny boy. Guess it was only a matter of time for him, right?”

Dean looks crushed, and Sam wishes he had time to comfort his brother. He can’t focus on anything but the demon in front of them for the moment, though, and he refuses to let himself be distracted. “Why are you here?” he demands. Can’t think of anything else to say. “What do you want?”

The demon’s eyes slowly move over to Sam, and he fights a shiver at the feeling of emptiness they give him. Refuses to look away first. “Oh, Sammy,” it nearly purrs. “That is quite the loaded question, my dear boy.”

Sam bristles at the nickname. Desperately tries to figure out what they’re supposed to do now. Decides to keep the demon talking while he thinks. “Fine, whatever. Why Dad, though? What’s the deal with this?”

“Let’s just say I’ve got a special interest in the family.” The demon shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “Your mommy didn’t like that very much. Tried to make me go away, but I guess she was the one who ended up leaving, hm?”

It hits Sam like a train. The understanding. The memory. “The eyes,” he breathes. A flash of black nothingness. Headlights. His parents leaving for their dinner with a demon in the back seat.

Sam wonders briefly what they’d have said if he’d tried to mention it.

“Ding, ding, ding.” The demon’s grinning now, steps closer. “We’ve got a winner. And boy, am I happy about that.” 

Sam growls, low in his throat. “This is all because of you?” he demands. Can’t help the anger in his voice Everything that’s happened since they were kids, all of it caused because some demon decided it liked them. “Why?”

But this time, he remembers the flask he’s got tucked away. Waits until the demon looks away to speak before he slips his hand into his pocket. 

“Because I like you, Sam,” it says simply. “I like you a lot. And soon, you’ll know why.”

Sam doesn’t wait to hear more than that. He twists the flask open and swings it towards the demon, water splashing in a wide arc across their father’s body. The thing screams, its skin steaming, and Sam grabs his brother, stumbles half a step back.

As if brought out of a trance, Dean starts speaking quickly, stumbling over words. Sam doesn’t understand for the first few. “ _Exorciamus te, omnis immundus spiritus-_ ”

The demon growls, sounds pissed. Starts towards them. Sam focuses on fending it off with more of the holy water, gets between the thing and his brother. 

They’re doing an honest-to-god-exorcism, and the fact that he has time to think about the absurdity of that astounds him.

But it’s working. The demon’s moving back, black smoke starting to leak around its mouth and ears. But before Dean finishes- he’s still in the middle of the chant- their dad’s head is tilted back, and black smoke pours from his mouth, spiralling up towards the ceiling before rushing out the window.

There’s dead silence for a moment, then John’s body sways and falls to the ground.

It only takes a glance to tell that he’s already dead, a trickle of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. 

Dean’s the one who speaks first, shaky and quiet. “What the hell was that?”

Sam just shakes his head slowly. Doesn’t know what to say. “You’re the expert.” 

The joke falls flat, and Sam moves to sit down very slowly. “You said something about burning the body, didn’t you?”

It’s far from normal, but it’s something to focus on for the time being that isn’t the insanity of what just happened.

Dean leads the charge gathering everything up, and they build a small pyre for their dad. Don’t say anything as they watch it burn. It takes a couple hours, by the time it’s a pile of ashes on the ground, and by then, Sam’s figured out what to say. At least a little bit of it.

“Dad was wrong. About the eyes.”

Dean glances up. They’re on their way back to the car, and he looks a little confused. “What?”

“He always said they were black.” Sam doesn’t quite look at his brother. Shrugs. “It wasn’t black, it was- it was more like there was just nothing there.” He swallows hard. “The night of the crash, I mean.”

Dean blinks. Understanding comes to his face slowly, and he nods. Bites his lip. “It wasn’t your fault. You, uh- you used to cry at night. Tell me that they were hurt ‘cause of you, but they weren’t. It wasn’t your fault.”

The demon’s words are still ringing in Sam’s ears, making him wonder just how true that is, but he keeps it to himself. Tries to change the subject. “I’m sorry I called you crazy.”

If Dean’s bothered by the deflection, he doesn’t show it. “Crazy?”

“With the monsters being real. All that stuff.” Sam shrugs. Follows Dean back towards the trunk of the car to unload. “You were right.”

Dean shrugs, looks almost uncomfortable. “It’s not a bit deal. We just… saw different things.” He shrugs again. “What do you think it meant about us? About our family?”

Sam sighs, sets the knife and the holy water flask- nearly empty, now; he’ll have to ask Dean about how to refill it- back into the trunk. “I don’t know. But it sounds like we’ll need to do some digging.”

“Sounds like.” Dean takes the gun Sam’s pulled out and sets it in the back among everything else. Reaches up to pull it shut. “You ready to get going, then?”

“Yeah.” Sam glances at his brother. Takes a moment to appreciate the fact that they’re in this together. Wonders briefly what the weather’s like in New York.

He moves to help Dean close the trunk. It doesn’t matter, now, anyways. Not with the new, insane side of the world revealed to him. Besides, what’s a legal internship when there’s a demon out to get him and his big brother?

“We’ve got work to do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Whew. That was a doozy.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it, and thank you so much for taking the time to do so. I hope you all have a wonderful day, whatever time it may be where you are.
> 
> -
> 
> _Original full summary:_
> 
> Sam knows he should be happy to see his older brother again after two years thinking he could be dead. He knows that he should be happy to spend the time together, the weekend Dean proposes before Sam has to head off to New York to start the internship that'll guarantee his future. But there's something wrong, something off that he can't quite put his finger on. Something in Dean's eyes, in the way he looks at Jessica. The way he looks at Sam.
> 
> Things get more complicated when Dean mentions their schizophrenic alcoholic of a father. When he opens the trunk to reveal rosaries and guns and knives. When he insists that it wasn't really a car crash that killed their mother thirteen years ago.
> 
> Dean's insane. There's no other explanation, Sam knows, but he isn't about to leave his brother behind. Not when he needs help.
> 
> It somehow doesn't occur to him that the situation could be much more serious than it appears.


End file.
